THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


Mm.  Brook'fichl 

Fnitit  II  ilrairiny  by  Tltdrkerity 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY 


TO 


MRS.    BROOKFIELD 


MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS 
SKETCHES  AND  REVIEWS 


DRAWINGS   AND    CARICATURES 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1911 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


NOTE 

The  collection  here  reprinted  of  Letters  of  Thackeray 
to  Mrs.  Jane  Octavia  Brookfield,  her  husband  the 
Reverend  William  H.  Brookfield,  and  one  or  two  other 
friends,  was  first  published  by  Mrs.  Brookfield  in 
Scribner's  Magazine,  April  to  October,  1887.  Its  his- 
tory is  sufficiently  indicated  in  Mrs.  Brookfield's  few 
words  of  introduction,  and  the  original  publication  was 
accompanied  by  the  following  note  to  her  from  Lady 
Ritchie : 

36a  Rosary  Gardens,  Herfford  Square,  S.  W. 

April  28. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield: 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  made  a  satisfactory  ar- 
rangement for  publishing  your  selections  from  my  Father's  let- 
ters. I  am  of  course  unable  myself  by  his  expressed  wish  to  do 
anything  of  the  sort.  While  I  am  glad  to  be  spared  the  doubts 
and  difficulties  of  such  a  work,  I  have  often  felt  sorry  to  think 
that  no  one  should  ever  know  more  of  him.  You  know  better 
than  anyone  what  we  should  like  said  or  unsaid,  and  what  he 
would  have  wished;  so  that  I  am  very  glad  to  think  you  have 
undertaken  the  work,  and  am  always  your  affectionate 

Anne  Ritchie. 

A  note  by  the  editor  of  the  magazine  explained  that 
the  chronological  order  had  been  retained  regardless 


■^ 


833216 


of  the  letters'  relative  importance;  that  the  dates  when 
certain  were  printed  in  Roman  type — when  conjectural, 
in  italics  within  brackets ;  and  that  assistance  in  deciding 
upon  these  latter  dates,  with  some  annotation  additional 
to  Mrs.  Brookfield's,  had  been  kindly  given  by  Mr.  James 
Russell  Lowell.  The  arrangement  was  in  every  respect 
retained  on  the  issue  of  the  Letters  in  book  form  by  the 
publishers  of  the  magazine  in  the  autumn  of  1887,  and 
is  here  preserved,  no  reason  having  since  arisen  to 
change  the  conjectural  dates  or  the  order. 

Mrs.  Brookfield  died  in  London  November  27,  1896. 

The  frontispiece  of  this  volume  is  from  one  of  sev- 
eral of  Thackeray's  drawings  of  her  published  with 
the  letters,  and  dating  presumably  from  about  1847. 

The  Miscellaneous  Essays,  Sketches  and  Reviews 
here  collected,  with  a  few  others  already  printed  in  Vol- 
ume XXIV  and  elsewhere,  formed  a  volume  added  in 
1886  to  the  1869  edition  of  Thackeray's  works.  Some  of 
them  had  not  been  at  first  included  in  that  edition  because 
he  was  known  not  to  have  attached  to  them  the  value  of 
permanence — a  severer  judgment,  which  his  publishers 
and  representatives  rightly  said,  in  their  announcement 
of  the  volume,  it  was  perhaps  better  to  revise ;  some  had 
apparently  been  overlooked,  especially  among  his  earlier 
work.  In  every  case,  the  original  place  and  date  of 
publication  of  a  paper  are  given  at  its  end. 


VI 


CONTENTS 


FAGE 


Letters     1 

Index  to  Letters 193 

CRITICAL   REVIEWS 

Fashnable  Fax  and  Polite  Annygoats 199 

Jerome  Paturot;   with  Considerations  on  Novels  in 

General 213 

Grant  in  Paris 234 

A  Box  OF  Novels 256 

A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age 287 

Barmecide  Banquets,  with  Joseph  Bregion  and  Anne 

Miller 300 

A  Brother  of  the  Press  on  the  History  of  a  Lit- 
erary Man,  Laman  Blanchard,  and  the  Chances 

OF  THE  Literary  Profession 322 

Strictures  on  Pictures 343 

A  Second  Lecture  on  the  Fine  Arts 360 

A  Pictorial  Rhapsody 380 

A  Pictorial  Rhapsody:  concluded 413 

On  Men  and  Pictures 444 

May  Gambols 478 

Picture  Gossip 519 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


VARIOUS  ESSAYS,   LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 


PAOB 


Memorials  of  Gormandising 551 

Men  and  Coats 589 

Greenwich-Whitebait 614 

A  Leaf  out  of  a  Sketch-Book 625 

The  Dignity  of  Literature 633 

Mr.  Thackeray  in  the  United  States 640 

Goethe  in  his  Old  Age 648 

TiMBUCTOO 653 

DRAWINGS  AND   CARICATURES 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

Mrs.   Brookfield Frontispiece 

From  a  drawing  by  Thackeray 

FACING  PAGE 

Drawing  by  Thackeray  in  Water-Colour  and  Pencil 

(Mrs.   Brookfield) 22 

From  a  Drawing  by  Thackeray  in  the  Possession  of 

Mrs.  Brookfield 44 

In  the  Nursery  at  Clevedon  Court 68 

Clevedon   Church 74 

Note  Sent  by  Thackeray  to  Mrs.  Elliot     ....       78 

A  Note   and   Sketch   Sent   by   Thackeray   to   Mrs. 

Elliot,  in  the  Possession  of  Miss  Kate  Perry    .     .     100 

Drawing  by  Thackeray  in  Mrs.  Brookfield's  Posses- 
sion (Perhaps  Lady  Castlereagh ?) 122 

Memorial  Tablets  to  Arthur  and  Henry  Hallam  in 

Clevedon  Church 138 

Sketch  by  Thackeray,  Belonging  to  Mrs.  Brook- 
field       146 

From  a  Letter  to  Mrs.  Elliot,    in  the  Possession   of 

Her   Sister,  Miss   Kate  Perry  150 

In  the  School-room,  Clevedon  Court 156 

Sketch  by  Thackeray.  (His  Daughters  and  Major 
and  Mrs.  Carmichael  Smyth.)  In  Mrs.  Brook- 
field's  Possession 162 


LETTERS 


\ 


INTRODUCTION 

"ly^TO  writer  of  recent  times  is  so  much  quoted  as 
"^  ^  Thackeray ;  scarcety  a  week  passes  without  his 
name  recurring  in  one  or  other  of  the  leading  articles 
of  the  day;  and  yet  whilst  his  published  works  retain 
their  influence  so  firmly,  the  personal  impression  of  his 
life  and  conversation  becomes  more  and  more  shadowy 
and  indistinct  as  the  friends  who  knew  and  loved  him 
the  most  are  gradually  becoming  fewer  and  passing 
away. 

Thackeray's  nature  was  essentially  modest  and  re- 
tiring. More  than  once  it  appears  that  he  had  desired 
his  daughter  to  publish  no  memoir  of  him.  Mrs.  Ritchie, 
who  alone  could  do  justice  to  her  Father's  memory, 
and  who  has  inherited  the  true  woman's  share  of  his 
genius,  and  of  the  tender  and  perceptive  sympathy  of 
his  character,  has  ever  held  this  injunction  sacred,  even 
to  the  extent  of  withholding  all  his  letters  to  his  family 
from  publication.  Yet  it  happens  from  time  to  time 
that  some  chance  letters  of  doubtful  authenticity,  and 


4  INTRODUCTION 

others  utterly  spurious,  have  appeared  in  print,  and  have 
even  perhaps  found  acceptance  amongst  those  who, 
knowing  him  only  by  his  published  works,  were  without 
the  true  key  for  distinguishing  what  was  genuine  from 
what  was  simply  counterfeit. 

The  letters  which  form  this  collection  were  most  of 
them  written  by  Mr.  Thackeray  to  my  husband,  the 
late  Rev'd  W.  H.  Brookfield,  and  myself,  from  about 
1847,  and  continuing  during  many  years  of  intimate 
friendship,  beginning  from  the  time  when  he  first  lived 
in  London,  and  when  he  especially  needed  our  sympathy. 
His  happy  married  life  had  been  broken  up  by  the 
malady  which  fell  upon  his  young  wife  after  the  birth 
of  her  youngest  child ;  his  two  remaining  little  girls  were 
under  his  mother's  care,  at  Paris.  Mr.  Thackeray  was 
living  alone  in  London.  "  Vanity  Fair "  was  not  yet 
written  when  these  letters  begin.  His  fame  was  not  yet 
established  in  the  world  at  large;  but  amongst  his  close 
personal  friends,  an  undoubting  belief  in  his  genius  had 
already  become  strongly  rooted.  No  one  earlier  than 
my  dear  gifted  husband  adopted  and  proclaimed  this 
new  faith.  The  letters  now  so  informally  collected  to- 
gether are  not  a  consecutive  series ;  but  they  have  always 
been  carefully  preserved  with  sincere  affection  by  those 
to  whom  they  were  written.     Some  of  them  are  here 


INTRODUCTION  5 

given  without  the  omission  of  a  word;  others  are  ex- 
tracts from  communications  of  a  more  private  character ; 
but  if  every  one  of  these  letters  from  Thackeray  could 
be  rightly  made  public,  without  the  slightest  restriction, 
they  would  all  the  more  redound  to  his  honour. 

Jane  Octavia  Brookfield. 

29  Carlyle  Square,  Chelsea  [1886]. 


[Jan.  1847.] 
[To  Mr.  Brookfield.] 

My  Dear  W.  : 

There  will  be  no  dinner  at  Greenwich  on  Monday. 
Dickens  has  chosen  that  day  for  a  reconciliation  banquet 
between  Forster  and  me. 

Is  madame  gone  and  is  she  better?  My  heart  follows 
her  respectfully  to  Devonshire  and  the  dismal  scenes  of 
my  youth. 

I  am  being  brought  to  bed  of  my  seventh  darling  with 
inexpressible  throes:  and  dine  out  every  day  until  Jiiice 
knows  when. 

I  will  come  to  you  on  Sunday  night  if  you  like— 
though  stop,  why  shouldn't  you,  after  church,  come  and 
sleep  out  here  in  the  country? 

Yours, 

Jos.  OSBORN. 
7 


8  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

[August,  1847.] 
ITo  Mr.  Brookfield.] 

LE    DiMANCHE. 

jNIonsieur  l'Abbe: 

De  retour  de  Gravesend  j  'ai  trouve  chez  moi  un  billet 
de  M.  Crowe,  qui  m'invite  a  diner  demain  a  6  heures 
precises  a  Ampstead. 

En  meme  temps  M.  Crowe  m'a  envoye  une  lettre  pour 
vous,— ne  vous  trouvant  pas  a  votre  ancien  logement 
(ou  I'adresse  de  I'horrible  bouge  ou  vous  demeurez  ac- 
tuellement  est  heureusement  ignoree) — force  fut  a  M. 
Crowe  de  s'adresser  a  moi— a  moi  qui  connais  I'ignoble 
caveau  que  vous  occupez  indignement,  sous  les  dalles 
humides  d'une  eglise  deserte,  dans  le  voisinage  fetide  de 
fourmillants  Irlandais. 

Cette  lettre,  Monsieur,  dont  je  parle — cette  lettre — 
je  I'ai  laissee  a  la  maison.  Demain  il  sera  trop  tard  de 
vous  faire  part  de  I'aimable  invitation  de  notre  ami 
commun. 

Je  remplis  enfin  mon  devoir  en  vers  M.  Crowe  en  vous 
faisant  savoir  ses  intentions  hospitalieres  a  votre  egard. 
Et  je  vous  quitte.  Monsieur,  en  vous  donnant  les  assur- 
ances reiterees  de  ma  haute  consideration. 

Chevalier  de  Titmarsh. 

J'ofFre  a  Madame  I'Abbesse  mes  hommages  respec- 
tueux. 

1847. 
[To  Mr.  Brook  field.] 

My  Dear  old  B.: 

Can  you  come  and  dine  on  Thursday  at  six?  I  shall 
be  at  home— no  party— nothing— only  me.    And  about 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  9 

your  night-cap,  why  not  come  out  for  a  day  or  two, 

though  the  rooms  are  very  comfortable  in  the  Church 

vaults.^    Farewell. 

Ever  your 

Louisa. 

(And  Madam,  is  she  well?) 


[1847.] 

[Enclosing  the  following  note.'] 

Temple,  8  Nov. 
My  Dear  Thackeray: 

A  thousand  thanks.  It  will  do  admirably,  and  I  will 
not  tax  you  again  in  the  same  manner.  Don't  get  ner- 
vous or  think  about  criticism,  or  trouble  yourself  about 
the  opinions  of  friends;  you  have  completely  beaten 
Dickens  out  of  the  inner  circle  already.  I  dine  at  Gore 
House  to-day ;  look  in  if  you  can. 

Ever  yours, 

A.  H. 
^Iadam  : 

Although  I  am  certainly  committing  a  breach  of  con- 
fidence, I  venture  to  offer  my  friend  up  to  you,  because 
you  have  considerable  humour,  and  I  think  will  possibly 

^  In  this  Letter,  and  elsewhere,  reference  is  made  to  my  husband's  living 
in  the  "  church  vaults."  Our  income  at  this  time  •ws.?.  very  small,  and  a  long 
illness  had  involved  us  in  some  difficulty.  Mr.  Brookfield's  aversion  to  debt 
and  his  firm  rectitude  of  principle  decided  him  to  give  up  our  lodgings,  and 
to  remove  by  himself  into  the  vestry  of  his  District  Church,  which  was  situated 
in  a  very  squalid  neighborhood.  Here  he  could  live  rent  free,  and  in  the 
midst  of  his  parish  work,  whilst  he  sent  me  to  stay  with  my  dear  father,  the 
late  Sir  Charles  Elton,  at  Clevedon  Court,  for  the  recovery  of  my  health. 
At  this  juncture  our  circumstances  gradually  brightened.  Mr.  Thackeray, 
my  uncle,  Mr.  Hallam,  and  other  friends  interested  themselves  towards 
obtaining  better  preferment  for  Mr.  Brookfield,  whose  great  ability  and  high 
character  were  brought  to  the  notice  of  Lord  Lansdowne,  then  President  of 
the  Council,  and  head  of  the  Education  Department.  He  appointed  Mr. 
Brookfield  to  be  one  of  H.  M.  Inspectors  of  Schools,  an  employment  which 
was  very  congenial  to  him.  Our  difficulties  were  then  removed,  and  we  were 
able  to' establish  ourselves  in  a  comfortable  house  in  Portman  Street,  to 
which  so  many  of  these  letters  are  addressed. 


10  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

laugh  at  him.  You  know  you  yourself  often  hand  over 
some  folks  to  some  other  folks,  and  deserve  to  be  treated 
as  you  treat  others. 

The  circumstances  arose  of  a  letter  which  H sent 

me,  containing  prodigious  compliments.  I  answered 
that  these  praises  from  all  quarters  frightened  me  rather 
than  elated  me,  and  sent  him  a  drawing  for  a  lady's  al- 
bum, with  a  caution  not  to  ask  for  any  more,  hence  the 
reply.  Ah!  Madame,  how  much  richer  truth  is  than 
fiction,  and  how  great  that  phrase  about  the  "  inner  cir- 
cle "  is. 

I  write  from  the  place  from  which  I  heard  your  little 
voice  last  night,  I  mean  this  morning,  at  who  knows  how 
much  o'clock.  I  wonder  whether  you  will  laugh  as  much 
as  I  do ;  my  papa  in  the  next  room  must  think  me  insane, 
but  I  am  not,  and  am  of  Madame,  the  Serviteur  and 
Frere  affectionne. 

W.  M.  T. 

[1847.] 
[To  Mr.  Brookfield,] 

My  dear  W.  H.  B.: 

I  daresay  you  are  disgusted  at  my  not  coming  to  the 
houge,  on  Sunday  night,  but  there  was  a  good  reason, 
which  may  be  explained  if  required  hereafter.  And  I 
had  made  up  my  account  for  some  days  at  Southampton, 
hoping  to  start  this  day,  but  there  is  another  good  reason 
for  staying  at  home.  Poor  old  grandmother's  will,  bur- 
ial &c.,  detained  me  in  town.  Did  you  see  her  death  in 
the  paper? 

Why  I  write  now,  is  to  beg,  and  implore,  and  intreat 
that  you  and  Mrs.  Brookfield  will  come  and  take  these 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  11 

three  nice  little  rooms  here,  and  stop  with  me  until  you 
have  found  other  lodgment.  It  will  be  the  very  great- 
est comfort  and  kindness  to  me,  and  I  shall  take  it  quite 
hungry  if  you  don't  come.  Will  you  come  on  Saturday 
now  ?  the  good  things  you  shall  have  for  dinner  are  quite 
incredible.  I  have  got  a  box  of  preserved  apricots  from 
Fortnum  and  Mason's  which  alone  ought  to  make  any 
lady  happy,  and  two  shall  be  put  under  my  lady's  pil- 
low every  night.  Now  do  come— and  farewell.  My 
barb  is  at  the  postern.  I  have  had  him  clipped  and  his 
effect  in  the  Park  is  quite  tremenjus. 

JIkU   U  m  Uuiu,  Ium  [a^    pJLnJ  tlKKi,   UiM-. 


Brussels,  Friday  [28  July],  1848. 
I  have  just  had  a  dreadful  omen.    Somebody  gave  me 
a  paper-knife  with  a  mother  of  pearl  blade  and  a  beauti- 


12  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

ful  Silver  handle.  Annie  recognised  it  in  a  minute,  lying 
upon  my  dressing  table,  with  a  "  Here's  Mrs.  So  and  So's 
butter  knife."  I  suppose  she  cannot  have  seen  it  above 
twice,  but  that  child  remembers  everything.  Well,  this 
morning,  being  fairly  on  my  travels,  and  having  the 
butter  knife  in  my  desk,  I  thought  I  would  begin  to  cut 
open  a  book  I  had  bought,  never  having  as  yet  had 
occasion  to  use  it.  The  moment  I  tried,  the  blade 
broke  away  from  the  beautiful  handle.  What  does  this 
portend?  It  is  now— [here  drawing]  There  is  a  blade 
and  there  is  a  hilt,  but  they  refuse  to  act  together.  Some- 
thing is  going  to  happen  I  am  sure. 

I  took  leave  of  my  family  on  Sunday,  after  a 
day  in  the  rain  at  Hampton  Court.  .  .  .  For- 
ster  ^  was  dining  with  Mr.  Chapman  the  pub- 
lisher, where  we  passed  the  day.  His  article  in  the  Ea^- 
aminer  did  not  please  me  so  much  as  his  genuine  good 
nature  in  insisting  upon  walking  with  Annie  at  night, 
and  holding  an  umbrella  over  her  through  the  pouring 
rain.  Did  you  read  the  Spectator's  sarcastic  notice  of  V. 
F.?  I  don't  think  it  is  just,  but  think  Khitoul  is  a  very 
honest  man  and  rather  inclined  to  deal  severely  with  his 
private  friends,  lest  he  should  fall  into  the  other  ex- 
treme;—to  be  sure  he  keeps  out  of  it,  I  mean  the  other 
extreme,  very  well. 

I  passed  ]\Ionday  night  and  part  of  Tuesday  in  the 
artless  society  of  some  officers  of  the  21st,  or  Royal 

Mohn  Forster,  the  intimate  friend  of  Charles  Dickens, 
and  well-known  writer. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  13 

Scots  Fusiliers,  in  garrison  at  Canterbury.  We  went 
to  a  barrack  room,  where  we  drank  a  bout,  out  of  a  Silver 
cup  and  a  glass.  I  heard  such  stale  old  garrison  stories. 
I  recognised  among  the  stories  many  old  friends  of  my 
youth,  very  pleasant  to  meet  when  one  was  eighteen,  but 
of  whom  one  is  rather  shv  now.  Not  so  these  officers, 
however;  they  tell  each  other  the  stalest  and  wickedest 
old  Joe  Millers;  the  jolly  grey-headed  old  majors  have 
no  reverence  for  the  beardless  ensigns,  nor  vice-versa.  I 
heard  of  the  father  and  son  in  the  other  regiment  in 
garrison  at  Canterbury,  the  Slashers  if  you  please,  being 
carried  up  drunk  to  bed  the  night  before.  Fancy  what 
a  life.  Some  of  ours, — I  don't  mean  yours  Madam,  but 
I  mean  mine  and  others— are  not  much  better,  though 
more  civilised. 

We  went  to  see  the  wizard  Jacobs  at  the  theatre,  he 
came  up  in  the  midst  of  the  entertainment,  and  spoke 
across  the  box  to  the  young  officers;— he  knows  them  in 
private  life,  they  think  him  a  good  fellow.  He  came  up 
and  asked  them  confidentially,  if  they  didn't  like  a  trick 
he  had  just  performed.  "  Neat  little  thing  isn't  it? "  the 
great  Jacobs  said,  "  I  brought  it  over  from  Paris." 
They  go  to  his  entertainment  every  night,  fancy  what 
a  career  of  pleasure ! 

A  wholesome  young  Squire  with  a  large  brown  face 
and  a  short  waistcoat,  came  up  to  us  and  said,  "  Sorry 
you're  goin',  I  have  sent  up  to  barracks  a  great  lot  o' 
rdbhuts"  They  were  of  no  use,  those  rabhuts;  the  21st 
was  to  march  the  next  da^^  I  saw  the  men  walking  about 
on  the  last  day,  taking  leave  of  their  sweethearts,  (who 
will  probably  be  consoled  by  the  Slashers) . 

I  was  carried  off  by  my  brother-in-law  through  the 
rain,  to  see  a  great  sight,  the  regimental  soup-tureens 


14 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 


and  dishcovers,  before  they  were  put  away.  "  Feel  that " 
says  he,  "WilHam,  just  feel  the  weight  of  that!"  I 
was  called  upon  twice  to  try  the  weight  of  that  soup 
dish,  and  expressed  the  very  highest  gratification  at  being 
admitted  to  that  privilege.  Poor  simple  young  fellows 
and  old  youngsters !  I  felt  ashamed  of  myself  for  spy- 
ing out  their  follies  and  fled  from  them  and  came  off  to 
Dover.  It  was  pouring  with  rain  all  day,  and  I  had 
no  opportunity  of  putting  anything  into  the  beautiful 
new  sketch  books. 

I  passed  an  hour  in  the  Cathedral,  which  seemed  all 
beautiful  to  me;  the  fifteenth  Century  part,  the  thir- 
teenth century  part,  and  the  crypt  above  all,  which  they 
say  is  older  than  the  Conquest.     The  most  charming, 

li->/ r'  W***  ^^'  *t^  *  I  lw»,6i(tfa> 
•jlMituru  44U«4««  A^MiJT^  C  tiJ  I'ZunXui.,.    I>W  Jutojwtt.  •^mu^  j^U^ttrf 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  15 

harmonious,  powerful  combination  of  shafts  and  arches, 
beautiful  whichever  way  you  saw  them  developed,  like 
a  fine  music  or  the  figures  in  a  Kaleidoscope,  rolling  out 
mysteriously,  a  beautiful  foundation  for  a  beautiful 
building.  I  thought  how  some  people's  towering  intel- 
lects and  splendid  cultivated  geniuses  rise  upon  simple, 
beautiful  foundations  hidden  out  of  sight,  and  how  this 
might  be  a  good  simile,  if  I  knew  of  anj^  very  good  and 
wise  man  just  now.  But  I  don't  know  of  many,  do  you? 
Part  of  the  Ci>ypt  was  given  up  to  French  Calvinists ; 
and  texts  from  the  French  Bible  of  some  later  sect  are 
still  painted  on  the  pillars,  surrounded  by  French  orna- 
ments, looking  very  queer  and  out  of  place.  So,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  do  we  look  queer  and  out  of  place  in  that 
grand  soaring  artificial  building:  we  may  put  a  shovel 
hat  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  steeple,  as  Omar  did  a  crescent 
on  the  peak  of  the  church  at  Jerusalem ;  but  it  does  not 
belong  to  us,  I  mean  according  to  the  fitness  of  things. 
We  ought  to  go  to  church  in  a  very  strong,  elegant, 
beautifully  neat  room;  croziers,  and  banners,  incense, 
and  jimcracks,  grand  processions  of  priests  and  monks 
(with  an  inquisition  in  the  distance),  and  lies,  avarice, 
tyranny,  torture,  all  sorts  of  horrible  and  unnatural  op- 
pressions and  falsehoods  kept  out  of  sight ;  such  a  place 
as  this  ought  to  belong  to  the  old  religion.  How  some- 
body of  my  acquaintance  would  like  to  walk  into  a  beau- 
tiful calm  confessional  and  go  and  kiss  the  rood  or  the 
pavement  of  a'Becket's  shrine.  Fancy  the  church  quite 
full ;  the  altar  lined  w^ith  pontifical  gentlemen  bobbing  up 
and  down;  the  dear  little  boys  in  white  and  red  flinging 
about  the  incense  pots;  the  music  roaring  out  from  the 
organs ;  all  the  monks  and  clergy  in  their  stalls,  and  the 
archbishop  on  his  throne — O !  how  fine !    And  then  think 


r 


16  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

of  the  -f-  of  our  Lord  speaking  quite  simply  to  simple 
Syrian  people,  a  child  or  two  maybe  at  his  knees,  as  he 
taught  them  that  love  was  the  truth.  Ah !  as  one  thinks 
of  it,  how  grand  that  figure  looks,  and  how  small  all  the 
rest ;  but  I  dare  say  I  am  getting  out  of  my  depth. 

I  came  on  hither  [to  Brussels]  yesterday,  having 
passed  the  day  previous  at  Dover,  where  it  rained  inces- 
santly, and  where  I  only  had  the  courage  to  write  the 
fii'st  sentence  of  this  letter,  being  utterly  cast  down  and 
more  under  the  influence  of  blue  devils  than  I  ever  re- 
member before;  but  a  fine  bright  sky  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  a  jolly  brisk  breeze,  and  the  ship  cut- 
ting through  the  water  at  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  restored 
cheerfulness  to  this  wearied  spirit,  and  enabled  it  to  par- 
take freely  of  beefsteak  and  pommes-de-terre  at  Ostend; 
after  an  hour  of  which  amusement,  it  was  time  to  take 
the  train  and  come  on  to  Brussels.  The  country  is  de- 
lightfully well  cultivated ;  all  along  the  line  you  pass  by 
the  most  cheerful  landscapes  with  old  cities,  gardens, 
cornfields  and  rustic  labour. 

At  the  table  d'hote  I  sat  next  a  French  Gentleman 
and  his  lady.  She  first  sent  away  the  bread;  she  then 
said  ''mais,  mon  ami,  ce  potage  est  abominable;  "  then  she 
took  a  piece  of  pudding  on  her  fork,  not  to  eat,  but  to 
smell,  after  which  she  sent  it  away.  Experience  told  me 
it  was  a  little  grisette  giving  herself  airs,  so  I  compli- 
mented the  waiter  on  the  bread,  recommended  the  soup 
to  a  man,  and  took  two  portions  of  the  pudding,  under 
her  nose. 

Then  we  went  (I  found  a  companion,  an  ardent  ad- 
mirer, in  the  person  of  a  Manchester  merchant)  to  the 
play,  to  sec  Dejazet,  in  the  "Gentil  Bernard,"  of  which 
piece  I  shall  say  nothing,  but  I  think  it  was  the  wicked- 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  17 

est  I  ever  saw,  and  one  of  the  pleasantest,  adorably 
funny  and  naughty.  As  the  part  {Gentil  Bernard  is  a 
prodigious  rake,)  is  acted  by  a  woman,  the  reaUty  is 
taken  from  it,  and  one  can  bear  to  hsten,  but  such  a  Httle 
rake,  such  charming  impudence,  such  Httle  songs,  such 
little  dresses !  She  looked  as  mignonne  as  a  china  image, 
and  danced,  fought,  sang  and  capered,  in  a  way  that 
would  have  sent  Walpole  mad  could  he  have  seen  her. 

And  now  writing  has  made  me  hungry,  and  if  j^ou 
please  I  will  go  and  breakfast  at  a  Cafe  with  lots  of 
newspapers,  and  garcjons  bawling  out  "  Voild  M'sieu " 
—how  pleasant  to  think  of!  The  JVIanchester  admirer 
goes  to  London  to-day  and  will  take  this.  If  j^ou  want 
any  more  please  send  me  word  Poste  Restante  at  Spa. 

I  am  going  to-day  to  the  Hotel  de  la  Terrasse,  where 
Becky  used  to  live,  and  shall  pass  by  Captain  Osborn's 
lodgings,  where  I  recollect  meeting  him  and  his  little 
wife— who  has  married  again  somebody  told  me;— but 
it  is  always  the  way  with  these  grandes  passions— 'Mrs. 
Dobbins,  or  some  such  name,  she  is  now ;  always  an  over- 
rated woman,  I  thought.  How  curious  it  is!  I  believe 
perfectly  in  all  those  people,  and  feel  quite  an  interest 
in  the  Inn  in  which  they  lived. 

Good  bye,  my  dear  gentleman  and  lady,  and  let  me 
hear  the  latter  is  getting  well. 

W.  M.  T. 

Hotel  des  Pays  Bas,  Spa. 

August  1st  to  5th.  1848. 

]M  Y  DEAR  FRIENDS  I 

Whoever  you  may  be  who  receive  these  lines, — for 
unless  I  receive  a  letter  from  the  person  whom  I  pri- 
vately mean,  I  shall  send  them  post-paid  to  somebody 


18  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

else,— I  have  the  pleasure  to  inform  you,  that  on  yes- 
terday, the  30th,  at  7  a.m.,  I  left  Brussels,  with  which  I 
was  much  pleased,  and  not  a  little  tired,  and  arrived  quite 
safe  per  raikoad  and  diligence  at  the  watering  place  of 
Spa.  I  slept  a  great  deal  in  the  coach,  having  bought  a 
book  at  Brussels  to  amuse  me,  and  having  for  compan- 
ions, three  clergymen  (of  the  deplorable  Romish  faith) 
with  large  idolatrous  three-cornered  hats,  who  read  their 
breviaries  all  the  time  I  was  awake,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
gave  utterance  to  their  damnable  Popish  opinions  when 
the  stranger's  ears  were  closed ;  and  lucky  for  the  priests 
that  I  was  so  situated,  for  speaking  their  language  a 
great  deal  better  than  they  do  themselves  (being  not 
only  image-worshippers  but  Belgians,  whose  jargon  is 
as  abominable  as  their  superstition)  I  would  have  en- 
gaged them  in  a  controversy,  in  which  I  daresay  they 
would  have  been  utterly  confounded  by  one  who  had  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles  of  truth  on  his  side.  Their  hats 
could  hardly  get  out  of  the  coach  door  when  they  quitted 
the  carriage,  and  one  of  them,  when  he  took  off  his,  to 
make  a  parting  salute  to  the  company,  quite  extin- 
guished a  little  passenger. 

We  arrived  at  Spa  at  two  o'clock,  and  being  driven  on 
the  top  of  the  diligence  to  two  of  the  principal  hotels, 
they  would  not  take  me  in  as  I  had  only  a  little  portman- 
teau, or  at  least  only  would  offer  me  a  servant's  bed- 
room. These  miserable  miscreants  did  not  see  by  my 
appearance  that  I  was  not  a  flunkey,  but  on  the  contrary, 
a  great  and  popular  author;  and  I  intend  to  have  two 
fine  pictures  painted  when  I  return  to  England,  of  the 
landlord  of  the  Hotel  d'Orange  refusing  a  bed-chamber 
to  the  celebrated  Titmarsh,  and  of  the  proprietor  of  the 
Hotel   d'York,   offering   Jeames   a   second-floor   back 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY  19 

closet.  Poor  misguided  people!  It  was  on  the  30th 
July  1848.  The  first  thing  I  did  after  at  length  secur- 
ing a  handsome  apartment  at  the  Hotel  des  Pays  Bas, 
was  to  survey  the  town  and  partake  of  a  glass  of  water 
at  the  Pouhon  well,  where  the  late  Peter  the  Great,  the 
imperator  of  the  Bo-Russians  appears  also  to  have 
drunk;  so  that  two  great  men  at  least  have  refreshed 
themselves  at  that  fountain.  I  was  next  conducted  to 
the  baths,  where  a  splendid  concert  of  wind  and  stringed 
instruments  was  performed  under  my  window,  and  many 
hundreds  of  gentle-folks  of  all  nations  were  congregated 
in  the  pubhc  walk,  no  doubt  to  celebrate  my  arrival. 
They  are  so  polite  however  at  this  place  of  elegant  ease, 
that  they  didn't  take  the  least  notice  of  the  Illustrious 
Stranger,  but  allowed  him  to  walk  about  quite  unmo- 
lested and,  (to  all  appearance)  unremarked.  I  went  to  the 
table  d'hote  with  perfect  afFabilit}'^,  just  like  an  ordinary 
person ;  an  ordinary  person  at  the  table  d'hote ,  mark  the 
pleasantry.  If  that  joke  doesn't  make  j^our  sides  ache, 
what,  my  dear  friend,  can  move  you  ?  We  had  a  number 
of  good  things,  fifteen  or  sixteen  too  many  I  should  say. 
I  was  myself  obliged  to  give  in  at  about  the  twenty-fifth 
dish ;  but  there  was  a  Flemish  lady  near  me,  a  fair  blue- 
eyed  being,  who  carried  on  long  after  the  English  au- 
thor's meal  was  concluded,  and  who  said  at  dinner  to- 
day, (when  she  beat  me  by  at  least  treble  the  amount  of 
victuals)  that  she  was  languid  and  tired  all  day,  and  an 
invalid,  so  weak  and  delicate  that  she  could  not  walk. 
"No  wonder,"  thought  an  observer  of  human  nature, 
who  saw  her  eating  a  second  supply  of  lobster  salad, 
which  she  introduced  with  her  knife,  "no  wonder,  my 
blue-eyed  female,  that  you  are  ill,  when  you  take  such  a 
preposterous  quantity  of  nourishment;"  but  as  the  wa- 


20  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

ters  of  this  place  are  eminently  ferruginous,  I  presume 
that  she  used  the  knife  in  question  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  steel  with  her  dinner.  The  subject  I  feel  is 
growing  painful,  and  we  will,  if  you  please,  turn  to  more 
delicate  themes. 

I  retired  to  my  apartment  at  seven,  with  the  same  book 
which  I  had  purchased,  and  which  sent  me  into  a  second 
sleep  until  ten  when  it  was  time  to  go  to  rest.  At  eight 
I  was  up  and  stirring,  at  8.30  I  was  climbing  the  brow 
of  a  little  mountain  which  overlooks  this  pretty  town, 
and  whence,  from  among  firs  and  oaks,  I  could  look 
down  upon  the  spires  of  the  church,  and  the  roofs  of 
the  Redoute,  and  the  principal  and  inferior  buildings 
and  the  vast  plains,  and  hills  beyond,  topped  in  many 
places  with  pine  woods,  and  covered  with  green  crops 
and  yellow  corn.  Had  I  a  friend  to  walk  hand  in  hand 
with,  him  or  her,  on  these  quiet  hills,  the  promenade  me- 
thinks  might  be  pleasant.  I  thought  of  many  such  as  I 
paced  among  the  rocks  and  shrubberies.  Breakfast  suc- 
ceeded that  solitary,  but  healthy  reverie,  when  coffee  and 
eggs  were  served  to  the  Victim  of  Sentiment.  Sketch- 
book in  hand,  the  individual  last  alluded  to  set  forth  in 
quest  of  objects  suitable  for  his  pencil.  But  it  is  more 
respectful  to  Nature  to  look  at  her  and  gaze  with  plea- 
sure, rather  than  to  sit  down  with  pert  assurance,  and 
begin  to  take  her  portrait.  A  man  who  persists  in 
sketching,  is  like  one  who  insists  on  singing  during  the 
performance  of  an  opera.  What  business  has  he  to  be 
trying  his  stupid  voice?  He  is  not  there  to  imitate,  but 
to  admire  to  the  best  of  his  power.  Thrice  the  rain  came 
down  and  drove  me  away  from  my  foolish  endeavours, 
as  I  was  making  the  most  abominable  caricatures  of 
pretty,  quaint  cottages,  shaded  by  huge  ancient  trees. 


LETTERS    OF  THACKERAY  21 

In  the  evening  was  a  fine  music  at  the  Redoute,  which 
being  concluded,  those  who  had  a  mind  were  free  to  re- 
pair to  a  magnificent  neighbouring  saloon,  superbly 
lighted,  where  a  great  number  of  persons  were  assembled 
amusing  themselves,  round  two  tables  covered  with 
green  cloth  and  ornamented  with  a  great  deal  of  money. 
They  were  engaged  at  a  game  which  seems  very  simple ; 
one  side  of  the  table  is  marked  red  and  the  other  black, 
and  you  have  but  to  decide  which  of  the  red  or  the  black 
you  prefer,  and  if  the  colour  you  choose  is  turned  up  on 
the  cards,  which  a  gentleman  deals,  another  gentleman 
opposite  to  him  gives  you  five  franks,  or  a  napoleon  or 
whatever  sum  of  money  you  have  thought  fit  to  bet  upon 
your  favourite  colour. 

But  if  your  colour  loses,  then  he  takes  your  napoleon. 
This  he  did,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  me  twice,  and  as  I 
thought  this  was  enough,  I  came  home  and  wrote  a  let- 
ter, full  of  nonsense  to— 

\_August  11th] 

My  Dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  : 

You  see  how  nearly  you  were  missing  this  delightful 
letter,  for  upon  my  word  I  had  packed  it  up  small  and 
was  going  to  send  it  off  in  a  rage  to  somebody  else,  this 
very  day,  to  a  young  lady  whom  some  people  think  over- 
rated very  likely,  or  to  some  deserving  person,  when,  O 
gioja  e  felicitd  (I  don't  know  whether  that  is  the  way  to 
spell  gioja,  but  rather  pique  myself  on  the  g)  when  O! 
honheur  supreme,  the  waiter  enters  my  door  at  10  o'clock 
this  morning,  just  as  I  had  finished  writing  page  seven 
of  PENDENNIS,  and  brings  me  the  Times  newspaper 
and  a  beautiful  thick  2/4  letter,  in  a  fine  large  hand.    I 


22  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

eagerly  seized — the  newspaper,  (ha  ha!  I  had  somebody 
there)  and  was  quickly  absorbed  in  its  contents.  The 
news  from  Ireland  is  of  great  interest  and  importance, 
aixi  we  may  indeed  return  thanks  that  the  deplorable 
revolution  and  rebellion,  which  everybody  anticipated  in 
that  country,  has  been  averted  in  so  singular,  I  may  say 
unprecedented  a  manner.  How  pitiful  is  the  figure  cut 
by  Mr.  Smith  O'Brien,  and  indeed  by  Popery  alto- 
gether! &c.  &c. 

One  day  is  passed  away  here  very  like  its  defunct 
predecessor.  I  have  not  lost  any  more  money  at  the 
odious  gambling  table,  but  go  and  watch  the  players 
there  with  a  great  deal  of  interest.  There  are  ladies 
playing— young  and  pretty  ones  too.  One  is  very  like  a 
lady  I  used  to  know,  a  curate's  wife  in  a  street  off  Golden 
Square,  whatdyoucallit  street,  where  the  pianoforte 
maker  lives;  and  I  daresay  this  person  is  puzzled  why 
I  always  go  and  stare  at  her  so.  She  has  her  whole  soul 
in  the  pastime,  puts  out  her  five-franc  pieces  in  the  most 
timid  way,  and  watches  them  disappear  under  the  crou- 
pier's  rake  with  eyes  so  uncommonly  sad  and  tender,  that 
I  feel  inclined  to  go  up  to  her  and  say  "  Madam,  you  are 
exceedingly  like  a  lady,  a  curate's  wife  whom  I  once 
knew,  in  England,  and  as  I  take  an  interest  in  you,  I 
wish  you  would  get  out  of  this  place  as  quick  as  you  can, 
and  take  your  beautiful  eyes  oiF  the  black  and  red." 
But  I  suppose  it  would  be  thought  rude  if  I  were  to 
make  any  such  statement  and— Ah!  what  do  I  remem- 
ber? There's  no  use  in  sending  off  this  letter  to-day, 
this  is  Friday,  and  it  cannot  be  delivered  on  Sunday  in 
a  Protestant  metropolis.    There  was  no  use  in  hurrying 

home  from  Lady ,  (Never  mind,  it  is  only  an  Irish 

baronet's    wife,    who    tries    to    disguise    her    Limerick 


ferawing  by  Thackeray  in  water-colour  and  pencil  (Mrs.  Brookfleld) 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  23 

brogue,  but  the  fact  is  she  has  an  exceedingly  pretty 
daughter),  I  say  there  was  no  use  in  hurrying  home  so 
as  to  get  this  off  by  the  post. 

Yesterday  I  didn't  know  a  soul  in  this  place,  but  got 
in  the  course  of  the  day  a  neat  note  from  a  ladv  who  had 
the  delight  of  an  introduction  to  me  at  D-v-nsh-re 
House,  and  who  proposed  tea  in  the  most  flattering 
manner.  Now,  I  know  a  French  duke  and  duchess,  and 
at  least  six  of  the  most  genteel  persons  in  Spa,  and  some 
of  us  are  going  out  riding  in  a  few  minutes,  the  rain 
having  cleared  oif ,  the  sky  being  bright,  and  the  sur- 
rounding hills  and  woods  looking  uncommonly  green 

and  tem]3ting. 

*^  4^  ^  ^ 

'^  ^*  I*  I* 

A  imuse  of  two  hours  is  supposed  to  have  taken  place 
since  the  above  was  written.  A  gentleman  enters,  as  if 
from  horseback,  into  the  room  No.  32  of  the  Hotel  des 
Pays  Bas,  looking  on  to  the  fountain  in  the  Grande 
Place.  He  divests  himself  of  a  part  of  his  dress,  which 
has  been  spattered  with  mud  during  an  arduous  but  de- 
lightful ride  over  commons,  roads,  woods,  nay,  moun- 
tains. He  curls  his  hair  in  the  most  killing  manner,  and 
prepares  to  go  out  to  dinner.  The  purple  shadows  are 
falling  on  the  Grande  Place,  and  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
looking  westward  are  in  a  flame.  The  clock  of  the  old 
church  strikes  sicV.  It  is  the  appointed  hour;  he  gives 
one  last  glance  at  the  looking-glass,  and  his  last  thought 
is  for —  {see  page  4> — last  three  words.) 

The  dinner  was  exceedingly  stupid,  I  very  nearly  fell 
asleep  by  the  side  of  the  lady  of  the  house.  It  was  all 
over  by  nine  o'clock,  half  an  hour  before  Payne  comes 
to  fetch  you  to  bed,  and  I  went  to  the  gambling  house 
and  lost  two  napoleons  more.    May  this  be  a  warning  to 


24*  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

all  dissipated  middle-aged  persons.  I  have  just  got  two 
new  novels  from  the  library  by  JSIr.  Fielding;  the  one 
is  Amelia^  the  most  delightful  portrait  of  a  woman  that 
surely  ever  was  painted;  the  other  is  Joseph  Andrews , 
which  gives  me  no  particular  pleasure,  for  it  is  both 
coarse  and  careless,  and  the  author  makes  an  absurd  brag 
of  his  twopenny  learning,  upon  which  he  values  himself 
evidently  more  than  upon  the  best  of  his  own  qualities. 
Good  night,  you  see  I  am  writing  to  you  as  if  I  was  talk- 
ing. It  is  but  ten  o'clock,  and  yet  it  seems  quite  time 
here  to  go  to  bed.  .  .  . 

I  have  got  a  letter  from  Annie,  so  clever,  humorous 
and  wise,  that  it  is  fit  to  be  printed  in  a  book.  As  for 
Miss  Jingleby,  I  admire  her  pretty  face  and  manners 
more  than  her  singing,  which  is  very  nice,  and  just  what 
a  lady's  should  be,  but  I  believe  my  heart  is  not  engaged 
in  that  quarter.  Why  there  is  six  times  as  much  writing 
in  my  letter  as  in  yours!  you  ought  to  send  me  ever  so 
many  pages  if  bargains  were  equal  between  the  male 
and  female,  but  they  never  are.  There  is  a  prince  here 
who  is  seventy-two  years  of  age  and  wears  frills  to  his 
trowsers. 

What  if  I  were  to  pay  my  bill  and  go  off  this  minute 
to  the  Rhine?  It  would  be  better  to  see  that  than  these 
genteel  dandies  here.  I  don't  care  about  the  beauties  of 
the  Rhine  any  more,  but  it  is  always  pleasant  and 
friendly.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  sleep  at 
Bonn  to-night,  looking  out  on  the  Rhine  opposite 
Drachenf els— that  is  the  best  way  of  travelhng  surely, 
never  to  know  where  you  are  going  until  the  moment 
and  fate  say  "go."  Who  knows?  By  setting  off  at 
twelve  o'clock,  something  may  happen  to  alter  the  whole 
course  of  my  life?  perhaps  I  may  meet  with  some  beau- 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  25 

tiful  creature  who  .  .  .  But  then  it  is  such  a  bore,  pack- 
ing up  those  shirts.  I  wonder  whether  anybody  will 
write  to  me  poste  restante  at  Homburg,  near  Frankf  ort- 
on-the-Maine?  And  if  you  would  kindly  send  a  line  to 
Annie  at  Captain  Alexander's,  Montpellier  Road, 
Twickenham,  telling  her  to  write  to  me  there  and  not 
at  Brussels,  you  would  add,  Madame,  to  the  many  obli- 
gations you  have  already  conferred  on 

Your  most  faithful  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

I  have  made  a  dreadful  dumpy  little  letter,  but  an  en- 
velope would  cost  1/2  more.  I  don't  like  to  say  any- 
thing disrespectful  of  Dover,  as  you  are  going  there,  but 
it  seemed  awfully  stupid.  May  I  come  and  see  you  as 
I  pass  through?  A  line  at  the  Ship  for  me  would  not 
fail  to  bring  me. 

21  August.  [1848]  Home. 
[To  Mr.  Brookfield.1 

MYDEiSHOLD  B.: 

I  am  just  come  back  and  execute  my  first  vow,  which 
was  to  tell  3'^ou  on  landing  that  there  is  a  certain  bath 
near  Minden,  and  six  hours  from  Cologne  by  the  rail- 
way (so  that  people  may  go  all  the  way  at  their  ease) 
where  all  sorts  of  complaints — including  of  course  yours, 
all  and  several,  are  to  be  cured.  The  bath  is  Rehda,  sta- 
tion Rehda.  Dr.  Sutro  of  the  London  German  Hos- 
pital, knows  all  about  it.  I  met  an  acquaintance  just 
come  thence,  (a  Mrs.  Bracebridge  and  her  mari)  who 
told  me  of  it.  People  are  ground  young  there— a  young 
physician  has  been  cured  of  far  gone  tubercles  in  the 


26  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

lungs;  maladies  of  languor,  rheumatism,  liver  com- 
plaints, all  sorts  of  wonders  are  performed  there,  espe- 
cially female  wonders. 

Y  not  take  Madame  there,  go,  drink,  bathe,  and  be 
cured?  Y  not  go  there  as  well  as  anywhere  else  this 
summer  season?  Y  not  come  up  and  see  this  German 
doctor,  or  ask  Bullar  to  write  to  him?  Do,  my  dear  old 
fellow ;  and  I  will  vow  a  candle  to  honest  Home's  chapel 
if  you  are  cured.  Did  the  Vienna  beer  in  which  I  drank 
your  health,  not  do  you  any  good?  God  bless  you,  my 
dear  Brookfield,  and  believe  that  I  am  always  affec- 
tionately yours,  W.  M.  T. 

[1848.] 

My  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield: 

Now  that  it  is  over  and  irremediable  I  am  thinking 
with  a  sort  of  horror  of  a  bad  joke  in  the  last  number  of 
Vanity  Fair,  which  may  perhaps  annoy  some  body  whom 
I  wouldn't  wish  to  displease.  Amelia  is  represented  as 
having  a  lady's  maid,  and  the  lady's  maid's  name  is 
Payne.  I  laughed  when  I  wrote  it,  and  thought  that 
it  was  good  fun,  but  now,  who  knows  whether  you  and 
Payne  and  everybody  won't  be  angry,  and  in  fine,  I  am 
in  a  great  tremor.  The  only  way  will  be,  for  j^ou  I  fear 
to  change  Payne's  name  to  her  Christian  one.  Pray 
don't  be  angry  if  you  are,  and  forgive  me  if  I  have 
offended.  You  know  you  are  only  a  piece  of  Amelia, 
my  mother  is  another  half,  my  poor  little  wife — y  est 
-pour  beaucoup. 

and  I  am 

Yours  most  sincerely 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

I  hope  you  will  write  to  say  that  you  forgive  me. 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  27 

October  1848. 

13  Young  Street,  Kensington. 
My  Dear  Lady  Brookfield: 

I  wrote  you  a  letter  three  nights  ago  in  the  French 
language,  describing  my  disappointment  at  not  having 
received  any  news  of  you.  Those  which  I  had  from 
Mrs.  Turpin  were  not  good,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
pleasure  to  your  humble  servant  to  have  had  a  line.  Mr. 
William  dined  with  the  children  good-naturedly  on  Sun- 
day, when  I  was  yet  away  at  Brighton. 

My  parents  are  not  come  yet,  the  old  gentleman  hav- 
ing had  an  attack  of  illness  to  which  he  is  subject;  but 
they  promised  to  be  with  me  on  Tuesday,  some  day  next 
week  I  hope.  I  virtuously  refused  three  invitations  by 
this  day's  post,  and  keep  myself  in  readiness  to  pass  the 
first  two  or  three  evenings  on  my  Papa's  lap. 

That  night  I  wrote  to  you  the  French  letter,  I  wrote 
one  to  Miss  Brandauer,  the  governess,  warning  her  off. 
I  didn't  send  either.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  send  yours 
though,  it  is  rather  funny,  though  I  daresay  with  plenty 
of  mistakes,  and  written  by  quite  a  different  man,  to  the 
Englishman  who  is  yours  respectfully.  A  language  I 
am  sure  would  change  a  man ;  so  does  a  handwriting.  I 
am  sure  if  I  wrote  to  you  in  this  hand,  and  adopted  it 
for  a  continuance,  my  disposition  and  sentiments  would 
alter  and  all  my  views  of  life.  I  tried  to  copy,  not  now 
but  the  other  day,  a  letter  Miss  Procter  showed  me  from 
her  uncle,  in  a  commercial  hand,  and  found  myself  after 
three  pages  quite  an  honest,  regular,  stupid,  commercial 
man ;  such  is  sensibility  and  the  mimetic  faculty  in  some 
singularly  organised  beings.  How  many  people  are 
you?    You  are  Dr.  Packman's  Mrs.  B,  and  Mrs.  Jack- 


28  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

son's  Mrs.  B,  and  Ah!  you  are  my  Mrs.  B.  you  know 
you  are  now,  and  quite  different  to  us  all,  and  you  are 
your  sister's  Mrs.  B.  and  Miss  Wynne's,  and  you  make 
gentle  fun  of  us  all  round  to  your  private  B.  and  offer 
us  up  to  make  him  sport.  You  see  I  am  making  you 
out  to  be  an  Ogre's  wife,  and  poor  William  the  Ogre, 
to  whom  you  serve  us  up  cooked  for  dinner.  Well,  stick 
a  knife  into  me,  here  is  my  busam;  I  won't  cry  out,  you 
poor  Ogre's  wife,  I  know  you  are  good  natured  and 
soft-hearted  au  fond. 

I  have  been  re-reading  the  Hoggarty  Diamond  this 
morning;  upon  my  word  and  honour,  if  it  doesn't  make 
you  cry,  I  shall  have  a  mean  opinion  of  you.  It  was 
written  at  a  time  of  great  affliction,  when  my  heart  was 
very  soft  and  humble.  Amen.  Ich  liahe  audi  viel  geliebt. 

Why  shouldn't  I  start  off  this  instant  for  the  G.  W. 
Station  and  come  and  shake  hands,  and  ask  your  family 
for  some  dinner;  I  should  like  it  very  much.  Well,  I 
am  looking  out  of  the  window  to  see  if  the  rain  will  stop, 
or  give  me  an  excuse  for  not  going  to  Hatton  to  the 
Chief  Baron's.    I  won't  go — that's  a  comfort. 

I  am  writing  to  William  to  ask  him  to  come  and  dine 
to-morrow,  we  will  drink  your  health  if  he  comes.  I 
should  like  to  take  another  sheet  and  go  on  tittle-tattling, 
it  drops  off  almost  as  fast  as  talking.  I  fancy  you 
lying  on  the  sofa,  and  the  boy  outside,  walking  up  and 
down  the  oss.  But  I  won't.  To-morrow  is  Sunday. 
Good  bye,  dear  lady,  and  believe  me  yours  in  the  most 
friendly  manner.  W.  M.  T. 

[Reply  to  an  invitation  to  dinner^  a  few  days  later.'\ 

Had  I  but  ten  minutes  sooner 
Got  your  hospitable  line, 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  29 

'Twould  have  been  delight  and  honour 

With  a  gent  Hke  you  to  dine; — 
But  my  word  is  passed  to  others, 

Fitz,  he  is  engaged  too: 
Agony  my  bosom  smothers,  i 

As  I  write  adieu,  adieu! 


\_Lines  sent  in  a  note  of  about  this  dateJ] 

I  was  making  this  doggerel  instead  of  writing  my 
Punch  this  morning,  shall  I  send  it  or  no? 

'Tis  one  o'clock,  the  boy  from  Punch  is  sitting  in  the 

passage  here. 
It  used  to  be  the  hour  of  lunch  at  Portman  Street,  near 

Portman  S queer. 
O !  stupid  little  printers'  boy,  I  cannot  write,  my  head  is 

queer. 
And  all  my  foolish  brains  employ  in  thinking  of  a  lady 

dear. 
It  was  but  yesterday,  and  on  my  honest  word  it  seems 

a  year — 
As  yet  that  person  was  not  gone,  as  yet  I  saw  that  lady 

dear — 
She's  left  us  now,  my  boy,  and  all  this  town,  this  life, 

is  blank  and  drear. 
Thou  printers'  devil  in  the  hall,  didst  ever  see  my  lady 

dear, 
You'd  understand,  you  little  knave,  I  think,  if  you 

could  only  see  her. 
Why  now  I  look  so  glum  and  grave  for  losing  of  this 

lady  dear. 
A  lonely  man  I  am  in  life,  my  business  is  to  joke  and 

jeer, 


30  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

A  lonely  man  without  a  wife,  God  took  from  me  a 

lady  dear. 
A  friend  I  had,  and  at  his  side,— the  story  dates  from 

seven  long  year — 
One  day  I  found  a  blushing  bride,  a  tender  lady  kind 

and  dear! 
They  took  me  in,  they  pitied  me,  they  gave  me  kindly 

words  and  cheer, 
A  kinder  welcome  who  shall  see,  than  yours,  O,  friend 

and  lady  dear? 

The  rest  is  wanting. 

1848. 

[To  Mr.  Broohfield.] 

My  dear  Vieux  : 

When  I  came  home  last  night  I  found  a  beautiful 
opera  ticket  for  this  evening, — Jenny  Lind,  charming 
bally  J  box  72. — I  am  going  to  dine  at  home  with  the 
children  and  shall  go  to  the  opera,  and  will  leave  your 
name  down  below.  Do  come  and  we  will  sit,  we  2,  and 
see  the  piece  like  2  lords,  and  we  can  do  the  other  part 
afterwards.  I  present  my  respectful  compliments  to 
Mrs.  Brookfield  and  am  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

If  you  can  come  to  dinner,  there's  a  curry. 

Oct.  4th  1848 

Dear  Mrs.  Brookfield: 

If  you  would  write  me  a  line  to  say  that  you  made  a 
good  journey  and  were  pretty  well,  to  Sir  Thomas  Cul- 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  31 

lam's,  Hardwick,  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  you  would  con- 
fer indeed  a  favour  on  yours  respectfully.  William 
dined  here  last  night  and  was  pretty  cheerful.  As  I 
passed  by  Portman  Street,  after  you  were  gone,  just 
to  take  a  look  up  at  the  windows,  the  usual  boy  started 
forward  to  take  the  horse.  I  laughed  a  sad  laugh.  I 
didn't  want  nobody  to  take  the  horse.  It's  a  long  time 
since  you  were  away.  The  cab  is  at  the  door  to  take 
me  to  the  railroad.  Mrs.  Procter  was  very  kind  and 
Adelaide  sympathised  with  me.  I  have  just  opened  my 
desk,  there  are  all  the  papers  I  had  at  Spa — Pendennis, 
unread  since,  and  your  letter.  Good  bye  dear  Mrs. 
Brookfield,  always  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

L'hovune  propose.  Since  this  was  wrote  the  author 
went  to  the  railroad,  found  that  he  arrived  a  minute  too 
late,  and  that  there  were  no  trains  for  4^  hours.  So  I 
came  back  into  town  and  saw  the  publishers,  who 
begged  and  implored  me  so,  not  to  go  out  pleasuring, 
&c.,  that  I  am  going  to  Brighton  instead  of  Bury. 
I  looked  in  the  map,  I  was  thinking  of  coming  to 
Weston- Super-Mare,— only  it  seemed  such  a  hint. 

[Club] 

[To  Mr.  Brookfield] 

October  1848. 
My  dear  Re\'t:rence: 

I  take  up  the  pen  to  congratulate  you  on  the  lovely 

weather,  which  must,  with  the  company  of  those  to 

whom  you  are  attached,  render  your  stay  at  Clevedon^ 

*  Clevedon  Court,  Somersetshire,  often  referred  to  in  these  letters,  and 
already  mentioned  in  the  note  p.  9,  the  home  of  Sir  Charles  Elton,  Mrs. 
Brookfield's  father. 


32  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

so  delightful.  It  snowed  here  this  morning,  since  which 
there  has  been  a  fog  succeeded  by  a  drizzly  rain.  I 
have  passed  the  day  writing  and  trying  to  alter  Pen- 
dennis,  which  is  without  any  manner  of  doubt,  awfully 
stupid;  the  very  best  passages,  which  pleased  the 
author  only  last  week,  looking  hideously  dull  by  the 
dull  fog  of  this  day.  I  pray,  I  pray,  that  it  may  be  the 
weather.  Will  you  say  something  for  it  at  church  next 
Sunday? 

My  old  parents  arrived  last  night,  it  was  quite  a  sight 
to  see  the  poor  old  mother  with  the  children :  and  Brad- 
bury, the  printer,  coming  to  dun  me  for  Pendennis 
this  morning.  I  slunk  away  from  home,  where  writing 
is  an  utter  impossibility,  and  have  been  operating  on  it 
here.  The  real  truth  is  now,  that  there  is  half  an  hour 
before  dinner,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  unless  I 
write  you  a  screed,  to  pass  away  the  time.  There  are 
secret  and  selfish  motives  in  the  most  seemingly  gen- 
erous actions  of  men. 

T'other  day  I  went  to  Harley  Street  and  saw  the  most 
beautiful  pair  of  embroidered  slippers,  worked  for  a 
lady  at  whose  feet  .  .  .  ;  and  I  begin  more  and 
more  to  think  Adelaide  Procter,  an  uncommonly  nice, 
dear,  good  girl.  Old  Dilke  of  the  Athenceum,  vows  that 
Procter  and  his  wife,  between  them,  wrote  Jane  Eyre, 
and  when  I  protest  ignorance,  says,  "Pooh!  you  know 
who  wrote  it,  you  are  the  deepest  rogue  in  England, 
&c."  I  wonder  whether  it  can  be  true?  It  is  just  pos- 
sible,  and  then  what   a   singular   circumstance   is   the 

Clevedon  Court  dates  from  the  reign  of  Edward  II.  (1307  to  1327),  and 
though  added  to  and  altered  in  Elizabeth's  time,  the  original  plan  can  be 
clearly  traced  and  much  of  the  14th  Century  work  is  untouched.  The  manor 
of  Clevedon  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Eltons  in  1709,  the  present  pos- 
sessor being  Sir  Edmund  Elton,  8th  Baronet. 

The  manor-house  is  the  original  of  Castlewood  in  Esmond. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 


33 


+  fire  of  the  two  dedications/     O!  Mon  Dieul  but  I 
wish  Pendennis  were  better. 

As  if  I  had  not  enough  to  do,  I  have  begun  to  blaze 
away  in  the  Chronicle  again:  it's  an  awful  bribe— that 
five  guineas  an  article.  After  I  saw  you  on  Sunday 
I  did  actually  come  back  straight,  on  the  omnibus.  I 
have  been  to  the  Cider  Cellars  since  again  to  hear  the 
man  sing  about  going  to  be  hanged,  I  have  had  a  head- 


Iu^Umv4 


Am4.    Oic^l^ 


--  *3 


I  ilafiJU   hJu. 


vL  L£a  j|u^" 


ache  afterw^ards,  I  have  drawn,  I  have  written,  I  have 
distracted  my  mind  with  healthy  labor.  Now  wasn't 
this  much  better  than  plodding  about  with  you  in  heavy 
boots  amidst  fields  and  woods?  But  unless  you  come 
back,  and  as  soon  as  my  work  is  done,  I  thought  a  day 
or  two  would  be  pleasantly  spent  in  your  society,  if  the 
house  of  Clevedon  admits  of  holding  any  more. 

Does  Harry  Hallam  go  out  with  dog  and  gun?  I 
should  like  to  come  and  see  him  shoot,  and  in  fact,  get 
up  field  sports  through  him  and  others.    Do  you  remark 

*  Jane  Eyre  to  Thackeray,  Vanity  Fair  to  Barry  Cornwall. 


34  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

all  that  elaborate  shading,  the  shot  &c.,?  All  that  has 
been  done  to  while  away  the  time  until  the  dinner's 
ready,  and  upon  my  conscience  I  believe  it  is  very  near 
come.  Yes,  it  is  6^.  If  Mrs.  Parr  is  at  Clevedon,  pre- 
sent the  respects  of  Mephistopheles,  as  also  to  any  other 
persons  with  whom  I  am  acquainted  in  your  numerous 
and  agreeable  family  circle. 

1848 

[To  Mr.  Brookfield.] 

Va  diner  chez  ton  classique  ami,  tant  renomme  pour 
le  Grec.  Je  ne  pourrais  mieux  faire  que  de  passer  la 
soiree  avec  une  famille  que  j'ai  negligee  quelque  peu — 
la  mienne.  Oui,  Monsieur,  dans  les  caresses  innocentes 
de  mes  enfans  cheris,  dans  la  conversation  edifiante  de 
Monsieur  mon  beaupere,  je  tacherai  de  me  consoler  de 
ta  seconde  infidelite.  Samedi  je  ne  puis  venir:  J'ai 
d'autres  engagemens  auxquels  je  ne  veux  pas  manquer. 
Va.  Sois  heureux.  Je  te  pardonne. 
Ton  melancholique  ami 

Chevalier  de  Titmarsh. 

[1st  November,  1848.] 

Dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  : 

I  was  at  Oxford  by  the  time  your  dinner  was  over,  and 
found  eight  or  nine  jovial  gentlemen  in  black,  feasting 
in  the  common  room  and  drinking  port  wine  solemnly. 
.  ,  .  We  had  a  great  sitting  of  Port  wine,  and  I  daresay 
the  evening  was  pleasant  enough.  They  gave  me  a  bed 
in  College, — such  a  bed,  I  could  not  sleep.  Yesterday, 
( for  this  is  half  past  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  would 
you  believe  it?)  a  party  of  us  drove  in  an  Oxford  Cart 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  35 

to  Blenheim,  where  we  saw  some  noble  pictures,  a  por- 
trait b\'  Raphael,  one  of  the  great  Raphaels  of  the  world, 
—  (Look,  this  is  college  paper,  with  beautiful  lines  al- 
ready made)  — A  series  of  magnificent  Rubens,  one  of 


iw  J«H*u  U^  ^<tufwi  -  a,  ju^TAia  l^J^I^ILt  -^u*,  ^tCu  ^*a4^  Ra(4a»4 

which,  representing  himself  walking  in  a  garden  with 
Mrs.  Rubens  and  the  baby,  did  one  good  to  look  at  and 
remember;  and  some  very  questionable  Titians  indeed 
—  I  mean  on  the  score  of  authenticity,  not  of  morals, 
though  the  subjects  are  taken  from  the  loves  of  those 
extraordinary  gods  and  goddesses,  mentioned  in  Lem- 
priere's  Dictionary,— and  we  walked  in  the  park,  with 
much  profit ;  surveying  the  great  copper-coloured  trees, 
and  the  glum  old  bridge  and  pillar  and  Rosamond's 
Well;  and  the  queer,  grand,  ugly  but  magnificent  house, 
a  piece  of  splendid  barbarism,  yet  grand  and  imposing 
somehow,  like  a  chief  raddled  over  with  war-paint,  and 
attired  with  careful  hideousness.  Well,  I  can't  make 
out  the  simile  on  paper,  though  it's  in  my  own  mind 
pretty  clear.  What  you  would  have  liked  best  was  the 
chapel  dedicated  to  God  and  the  Duke  of  ISIarlborough. 
The  monument  to  the  latter,  occupies  the  whole  place, 
almost,  so  that  the  former  is  quite  secondary.  O !  what 
comes?  It  was  the  scout  who  brought  me  your  letter, 
and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  vou  for  it.  .  .  . 

I  was  very  sorrv  indeed  to  hear  that  vou  have  been 
ill— I  was  afraid  the  journey  would  agitate  you,  that 


36  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

was  what  I  was  thinking  of  as  I  was  lying  in  the  Oxford 
man's  bed  awake. 


^ikXCiMb".  %A  Umu  Wtukt  1'Uwt  tlu4bb«wi4  4U  1  UM«  vivM  iklW  C>^ 

itffuU  Hu  '^*\\yjc  CUfuA  u  ttu  ^UMoVibuufTuirttt  ^^Ujot^  CtuwU.  kj*^ 

After  Blenheim  I  went  to  Magdalen  Chapel  to  a 
High  Mass  there.  O  cherubim  and  seraphim,  how  you 
would  like  it !  The  chapel  is  the  most  sumptuous  edifice, 
carved  and  frittered  all  over  with  the  richest  stone-work 
like  the  lace  of  a  lady's  boudoir.  The  windows  are  fitted 
with  pictures  of  the  saints  painted  in  a  grey  colour,— real 
Catholic  saints,  male  and  female  I  mean,  so  that  I  won- 
dered how  they  got  there ;  and  this  makes  a  sort  of  rich 
twilight  in  the  church,  which  is  lighted  up  by  a  multitude 
of  wax  candles  in  gold  sconces,  and  you  say  your  prayers 
in  carved  stalls  wadded  with  velvet  cushions.  They  have 
a  full  chorus  of  boys,  some  two  dozen  I  should  think, 
who  sing  quite  ravishingly.  It  is  a  sort  of  perfection 
of  sensuous  gratification;  children's  voices  charm  me 
so,  that  they  set  all  my  sensibilities  into  a  quiver ;  do  they 
you?  I  am  sure  they  do.  These  pretty  brats  with  sweet 
innocent  voices  and  white  robes,  sing  quite  celestially; 
— no,  not  celestially,  for  I  don't  believe  it  is  devotion  at 
all,  but  a  high  delight  out  of  which  one  comes,  not  im- 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  37 

purified  I  hope,  but  with  a  thankful  pleased  gentle 
frame  of  mind.  I  suppose  I  have  a  great  faculty  of  en- 
joyment. At  Clevedon  I  had  gratification  in  looking  at 
trees,  landscapes,  effects  of  shine  and  shadow  &c.,  which 
made  that  dear  old  Inspector  who  walked  with  me,  won- 
der. Well  there  can  be  no  harm  in  this  I  am  sure.  What 
a  shame  it  is  to  go  on  bragging  about  what  is  after  all 
sheer  roaring  good  health  for  the  most  part;  and  now 
I  am  going  to  breakfast.  Good  b3^e.  I  have  been  lion- 
ising the  town  ever  since,  and  am  come  home  quite  tired. 
I  have  breakfasted  here,  lunched  at  Christ  Church,  seen 
Merton,  and  All  Souls  with  Norman  IMacdonald,  where 
there  is  a  beautiful  library  and  a  boar's  head  in  the 
kitchen,  over  which  it  was  good  to  see  Norman's  eyes 
gloating;  and  it  being  All  Saints'  day,  I  am  going  to 
chapel  here,  where  they  have  also  a  very  good  music  I 
am  told. 

Are  you  better  ma'am?  I  hope  you  are.  On  Friday  I 
hope  to  have  the  pleasure  to  see  you,  and  am  till  then, 
and  even  till  Saturday, 

Yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

l29thNov:  1848.] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

I  am  very  much  pained  and  shocked  at  the  news 
brought  at  dinner  to-day  that  poor  dear  Charles  Buller 
is  gone.  Good  God!  think  about  the  poor  mother  sur- 
viving, and  what  an  anguish  that  must  be !  If  I  were  to 
die  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  my  mother  living  beyond 
me,  as  I  daresay  she  will.  But  isn't  it  an  awful,  awful, 
sudden  summons?    There  go  wit,  fame,  friendship,  am- 


38  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

bition,  high  repute !  Ah\  aimons  nous  hien.  It  seems  to 
me  that  is  the  only  thing  we  can  carry  away.  When  we 
go,  let  us  have  some  who  love  us  wherever  we  are.  I 
send  you  this  httle  line  as  I  tell  you  and  William  most 
things.    Good  night. 


Tuesday.     [Nov.  1848.] 
Good  night  my  dear  Madam. 

Since  I  came  home  from  dining  with  Mr.  Morier,  I 
have  been  writing  a  letter  to  Mr.  T.  Carljde  and  think- 
ing about  other  things  as  well  as  the  letter  all  the  time; 
and  I  have  read  over  a  letter  I  received  to-day  which 
apologises  for  everything  and  whereof  the  tremulous 
author  ceaselessly  doubts  and  misgives.  Who  knows 
whether  she  is  not  converted  by  Joseph  Bullar  by  this 
time.  She  is  a  sister  of  mine,  and  her  name  is  God  bless 
her. 

Wednesday.  I  was  at  work  until  seven  o'clock;  not 
to  very  much  purpose,  but  executing  with  great  labour 
and  hardship  the  day's  work.  Then  I  went  to  dine  with 
Dr.  Hall,  the  crack  doctor  here,  a  literate  man,  a  trav- 
eller, and  otherwise  a  kind  bigwig.  After  dinner  we 
went  to  hear  Mr.  Sortain  lecture,  of  whom  you  may  per- 
haps have  heard  me  speak,  as  a  great,  remarkable  orator 
and  preacher  of  the  Lady  Huntingdon  Connexion. 
(The  paper  is  so  greasy  that  I  am  forced  to  try  several 
pens  and  manners  of  handwriting,  but  none  will  do.) 
We  had  a  fine  lecture  with  brilliant  Irish  metaphors  and 
outbursts  of  rhetoric  addressed  to  an  assembly  of  me- 
chanics, shopboys  and  young  women,  who  could  not,  and 
perhaps  had  best  not,  understand  that  flashy  speaker. 
It  was  about  the  origin  of  nations  he  spoke,  one  of  those 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  39 

big  themes  on  which  a  man  may  talk  eternally  and  with 
a  never  ending  outpouring  of  words;  and  he  talked 
magnificently,  about  the  Arabs  for  the  most  part,  and 
tried  to  prove  that  because  the  Arabs  acknowledged 
their  descent  from  Ishmael  or  Esau,  therefore  the  Old 
Testament  History  was  true.  But  the  Arabs  may  have 
had  Esau  for  a  father  and  yet  the  bears  may  not  have 
eaten  up  the  little  children  for  quizzing  Elisha's  bald 
head.  As  I  was  writing  to  Carlyle  last  night,  ( I  haven't 
sent  the  letter  as  usual,  and  shall  not  most  likely,)  Saint 
Stephen  was  pelted  to  death  by  Old  Testaments,  and 
Our  Lord  was  killed  like  a  felon  by  the  law,  which  He 
came  to  repeal.  I  was  thinking  about  Joseph  Bullar's 
doctrine  after  I  went  to  bed,  founded  on  what  I  cannot 
but  think  a  blasphemous  asceticism,  which  has  obtained 
in  the  world  ever  so  long,  and  which  is  disposed  to  curse, 
hate  and  undervalue  the  world  altogether.  Why  should 
we  ?  What  we  see  here  of  this  world  is  but  an  expression 
of  God's  will,  so  to  speak — a  beautiful  earth  and  sky 
and  sea — beautiful  affections  and  sorrows,  wonderful 
changes  and  developments  of  creation,  suns  rising,  stars 
shining,  birds  singing,  clouds  and  shadows  changing 
and  fading,  people  loving  each  other,  smiling  and  cry- 
ing, the  multiplied  phenomena  of  Nature,  multiplied  in 
fact  and  fancy,  in  Art  and  Science,  in  every  way  that  a 
man's  intellect  or  education  or  imagination  can  be 
brought  to  bear. — And  who  is  to  say  that  we  are  to  ig- 
nore all  this,  or  not  value  them  and  love  them,  because 
there  is  another  unknown  world  yet  to  come?  Why  that 
unknown  future  world  is  but  a  manifestation  of  God 
Almighty's  will,  and  a  development  of  Nature,  neither 
more  nor  less  than  this  in  which  we  are,  and  an  angel 
glorified  or  a  sparrow  on  a  gutter  are  equally  parts  of 


40  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

His  creation.  The  light  upon  all  the  saints  in  Heaven  is 
just  as  much  and  no  more  God's  work,  as  the  sun  which 
shall  shine  to-morrow  upon  this  infinitesimal  speck  of 
creation,  and  under  which  I  shall  read,  please  God,  a 
letter  from  my  kindest  Lady  and  friend.  About  my 
future  state  I  don't  know;  I  leave  it  in  the  disposal  of 
the  awful  Father,— but  for  to-day  I  thank  God  that  I 
can  love  you,  and  that  you  yonder  and  others  besides  are 
thinking  of  me  with  a  tender  regard.  Hallelujah  may 
be  greater  in  degree  than  this,  but  not  in  kind,  and  count- 
less ages  of  stars  may  be  blazing  infinitely,  but  you 
and  I  have  a  right  to  rejoice  and  believe  in  our  little  part 
and  to  trust  in  to-day  as  in  tomorrow.  God  bless  my 
dear  lady  and  her  husband.  I  hope  you  are  asleep  now, 
and  I  must  go  too,  for  the  candles  are  just  winking  out. 
Thursday.  I  am  glad  to  see  among  the  new  inspec- 
tors, in  the  Gazette  in  this  morning's  papers,  my  old  ac- 
quaintance Longueville  Jones,  an  excellent,  worthy, 
lively,  accomplished  fellow,  whom  I  like  the  better  be- 
cause he  flung  up  his  fellow  and  tutorship  at  Cambridge 
in  order  to  marry  on  nothing  a  year.  We  worked  in 
Galignani's  newspaper  for  ten  francs  a  day,  very  cheer- 
fully ten  years  ago,  since  when  he  has  been  a  school- 
master, taken  pupils  or  bid  for  them,  and  battled  man- 
fully with  fortune.  William  will  be  sure  to  like  him,  I 
think,  he  is  so  honest,  and  cheerful.  I  have  sent  off  my 
letter  to  Lady  Ashburton  this  morning,  ending  with 
some  pretty  phrases  about  poor  old  C.  B.  whose  fate 
affects  me  very  much,  so  much  that  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
making  my  will  and  getting  ready  to  march  too.  Well 
ma'am,  I  have  as  good  a  right  to  presentiments  as  you 
have,  and  to  sickly  fancies  and  despondencies;  but  I 
should  like  to  see  before  I  die,  and  think  of  it  daily  more 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  41 

and  more,  the  commencement  of  Jesus  Christ's  chris- 
tianism  in  the  world,  where  I  am  sure  people  may  be 
made  a  hundred  times  happier  than  by  its  present  forms, 
Judaism,  asceticism,  Bullarism.  I  w^onder  will  He  come 
again  and  tell  it  us.  We  are  taught  to  be  ashamed  of 
our  best  feelings  all  our  life.  I  don't  want  to  blubber 
upon  everybody's  shoulders ;  but  to  have  a  good  will  for 
all,  and  a  strong,  very  strong  regard  for  a  few,  which  I 
shall  not  be  ashamed  to  own  to  them.  ...  It  is  near 
upon  three  o'clock,  and  I  am  getting  rather  anxious 
about  the  post  from  Southampton  via  London.  Why, 
if  it  doesn't  come  in,  you  won't  get  any  letter  to-morrow, 
no,  nothing— and  I  made  so  sure.  Well,  I  will  try  and 
go  to  work,  it  is  only  one  more  little  drop.  God  bless 
you,  dear  lady.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Friday.  I  have  had  a  good  morning's  work 
and  at  two  o'clock  comes  your  letter ;  dear  friend,  thank 
you.  What  a  coward  I  was,  I  will  go  and  walk  and  be 
happy  for  an  hour,  it  is  a  grand  frosty  sunshine.  To- 
morrow morning  early  back  to  London. 

31  January,  1849 

Ship,  Dover. 
Just  before  going  away. 
How  long  is  it  since  I  have  written  to  you  in  my  natu- 
ral handwriting?  ...  I  am  so  far  on  my  way  to  Paris, 
Meurice's  Hotel,  Rue  de  Rivoh.  ...  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  this  great,  I  may  say  decisive  step,  when  I 
came  to  see  you  on  Saturday,  before  you  went  to  Hither 
Green.  I  didn't  go  to  the  Sterling,  as  it  was  my  last 
day,  and  due  naturally  to  the  family.  We  went  to  bed 
at  half  past  nine  o'clock.    To-day  I  went  round  on  a  cir- 


42  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

cuit  of  visits,  including  Turpin  at  your  house.  It  seems 
as  if  I  was  going  on  an  ever  so  long  journey.  Have  you 
any  presentiments?  I  know  some  people  who  have. 
Thank  you  for  your  note  of  this  morning,  and  my  dear 
old  William  for  his  regard  for  me ;  try  you  and  conserve 
the  same.  .  .  .  There  is  a  beautiful  night,  and  I  am 
going  by  Calais.  Here,  with  a  step  on  the  steaming 
vessel, 

I  am,  affectionately  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


Meurice's  Hotel,  Rivoli  Street, 
Paris.  [Feb:  1849.] 
If  you  please,  I  am  come  home  very  tired  and  sleepy 
from  the  Opera,  where  my  friend  Rothschild  gave  me  a 
place  in  his  box.  There  was  a  grand  ballet  of  which  I 
could  not  understand  one  word,  that  is  one  pas,  for  not 
a  word  was  spoken;  and  I  saw  some  celebrities  in  the 
place.  The  President,  M.  Lamartine,  in  a  box  near  a 
handsome  lady;  M.  Marrast,  in  a  box  near  a  handsome 
lady ;  there  was  one  with  a  bouquet  of  lilies,  or  some  sort 
of  white  flowers,  so  enormous  that  it  looked  like  a  bou- 
quet in  a  pantomime,  which  was  to  turn  into  something, 
or  out  of  which  a  beautiful  dancer  was  to  spring.  The 
house  was  crammed  with  well-dressed  folks,  and  is  sump- 
tuous and  splendid  beyond  measure.  But  O!  think  of 
old  Lamartine  in  a  box  by  a  handsome  lady.  Not  any 
harm  in  the  least,  that  I  know  of,  only  that  the  most  ven- 
erable and  grizzled  bearded  statesmen  and  philosophers 
find  time  from  their  business  and  political  quandaries, 
to  come  and  sigh  and  ogle  a  little  at  the  side  of  ladies  in 
boxes. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  43 

I  am  undergoing  the  quarantine  of  family  dinners 
with  the  most  angelic  patience.  Yesterday  being  the  first 
day,  it  was  an  old  friend  and  leg  of  lamb.  I  graciously 
said  to  the  old  friend,  "  Why  the  deuce  wouldn't  j^ou  let 
me  go  and  dine  at  a  restaurant,  don't  you  suppose  I  have 
leg  of  lamb  at  home?"  To-day  with  an  aunt  of  mine, 
where  we  had  mock  turtle  soup,  by  Heavens !  and  I  ar- 
ranged with  my  other  aunt  for  another  dinner.  I  knew 
how  it  would  be;  it  must  be;  and  there's  my  cousin  to 
come  off  3^et,  who  says,  "  you  must  come  and  dine.  I 
haven't  a  soul,  but  will  give  you  a  good  Indian  dinner." 
I  will  make  a  paper  in  Punch  about  it,  and  exhale  my 
griefs  in  print.  I  will  tell  you  about  my  cousin  when 
I  get  home,— when  I  get  to  Portman  Street  that  is.  .  .  . 
What  brought  me  to  this  place  ?  Well  I  am  glad  I  came, 
it  will  give  me  a  subject  for  at  least  six  weeks  in  Punch, 
of  which  I  was  getting  so  weary  that  I  thought  I  must 
have  done  with  it. 

Are  you  better  for  a  little  country  air?  Did  you  walk 
in  that  cheerful  paddock  where  the  cows  are?  And  did 
you  have  clothes  enough  to  your  bed  ?  I  shall  go  to  mine 
now,  after  writing  this  witty  page,  for  I  have  been  writ- 
ing and  spinning  about  all  day,  and  am  very  tired  and 
sleepy  if  you  please.     Bon  Soir,  Madame.  .  .  . 

Saturday.  Though  there  is  no  use  in  writing,  because 
there  is  no  post,  but  que  voulez  vous,  Madame?  On  aime 
a  dire  un  petit  bonjour  a  scs  amis.  I  feel  almost  used 
to  the  place  already  and  begin  to  be  interested  about  the 
politics.  Some  say  there's  a  revolution  ready  for  today. 
The  town  is  crammed  with  soldiers,  and  one  has  a  curi- 
ous feeling  of  interest  and  excitement,  as  in  walking 
about  on  ice  that  is  rather  dangerous,  and  may  tumble  in 
at  any  moment.    I  had  three  newspapers  for  my  break- 


44  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

fast,  which  my  man,  (it  is  rather  grand  having  a  laquais 
de  place^  but  I  can't  do  without  him,  and  invent  all  sorts 
of  pretexts  to  employ  him)  bought  for  five  pence  of 
your  money.  The  mild  papers  say  we  have  escaped  an 
immense  danger,  a  formidable  plot  has  been  crushed, 
and  Paris  would  have  been  on  fire  and  fury  but  for  the 
timely  discovery.  The  Red  Republicans  say,  "  Plot!  no 
such  thing,  the  infernal  tyrants  at  the  head  of  affairs 
wish  to  find  a  pretext  for  persecuting  patriots,  and  the 
good  and  the  brave  are  shut  up  in  dungeons."  Plot  or 
no  plot,  which  is  it  ?  I  think  I  prefer  to  believe  that  there 
has  been  a  direful  conspiracy,  and  that  we  have  escaped 
a  tremendous  danger.  It  makes  one  feel  brave  somehow, 
and  as  if  one  had  some  merit  in  overthrowing  this  ras- 
cally conspiracy.  I  am  going  to  the  Chamber  directly. 
The  secretary  at  the  Embassy  got  me  a  ticket.  The 
Embassy  is  wonderfully  civil;  Lord  Normanby  is  my 
dearest  friend,  he  is  going  to  take  me  to  the  President, 
— very  likely  to  ask  me  to  dinner.  You  would  have 
thought  I  was  an  earl,  I  was  received  with  so  much  of 
empressement  by  the  ambassador. 

I  hadn't  been  in  Paris  ten  minutes,  before  I  met  ten 

people  of  my  acquaintance.  .  .  .  As  for Oh !  it  was 

wonderful.  We  have  not  met  for  five  years  on  account 
of  a  coolness, — that  is  a  great  heat, — resulting  out  of  a 
dispute  in  which  I  was  called  to  be  umpire  and  gave 
judgment  against  her  and  her  husband;  but  we  have 
met,  it  is  forgotten.  .  .  .  Poor  soul,  she  performed 
beautifully.  "  What,  William,  not  the  least  changed, 
just  the  same  as  ever,  in  spite  of  all  your  fame?  "—Fame 
be  hanged,  thought  I,  ijardonnez-moi  le  mot, — "  just  the 
same  simple  creature."  O!  what  a  hypocrite  I  felt.  I 
like  her  too;  but  she  poor,  poor  soul— well,  she  did  her 


From  a  drawing  by  Thackeray  in  the  possession  of  Mrs.  BrooKfleld 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  45 

comedy  exceedingly  well.  I  could  only  say,  "  JNIy  dear, 
you  have  grown  older,"  that  was  the  only  bit  of  truth 
that  passed,  and  she  didn't  like  it.  Quand  vous  serez  bien 
vieille,  and  I  say  to  you,  "  my  dear  you  are  grown  old  " 
(only  I  shall  not  say  "my  dear,"  but  something  much 
more  distant  and  respectful) ,  I  wonder  whether  you  will 
like  it.  Now  it  is  time  to  go  to  the  Chamber,  but  it  was 
far  pleasanter  to  sit  and  chatter  with  INIadame. 

I  have  been  to  see  a  piece  of  a  piece  called  the  Mys- 
teres  de  Londres,  since  the  above,  and  most  tremendous 
mysteries  they  were  indeed.  It  appears  that  there  lived 
in  London,  three  or  four  years  ago,  a  young  grandee  of 
Spain  and  count  of  the  Empire,  the  JNlarquis  of  Rio 
Santo,  an  Irishman  by  birth,  who  in  order  to  free  his  na- 
tive country  from  the  intolerable  tyranny  of  England, 
imagined  to  organize  an  extraordinary  conspiracy  of  the 
rogues  and  thieves  of  the  metropolis,  with  whom  some  of 
the  principal  merchants,  jewellers  and  physicians  were 
concerned,  who  were  to  undermine  and  destroy  somehow 
the  infamous  British  power.  The  merchants  were  to 
forge  and  utter  bank-notes,  the  jewellers  to  sell  sham 
diamonds  to  the  aristocracy,  and  so  ruin  them ;  the  physi- 
cians to  murder  suitable  persons  by  their  artful  prescrip- 
tions, and  the  whole  realm  being  plunged  into  anarchy 
by  their  manoeuvres,  Ireland  was  to  get  its  own  in  the 
midst  of  the  squabble.  This  astonishing  marquis  being 
elected  supreme  chief  of  a  secret  society  called  the  "  Gen- 
tlemen of  the  Night,"  had  his  spies  and  retainers  among 
the  very  highest  classes  of  society.  The  police  and  the 
magistrature  were  corrupted,  the  very  beef -eaters  of  the 
Queen  contaminated,  and  you  saw  the  evidence  of  such 
a  conspiracy  as  would  make  your  eyes  open  with  terror. 
Who  knows,  madame,  but  perhaps  some  of  the  school 


46  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

inspectors  themselves  were  bought  over,  and  a  Jesuitic 

C k,  an  ambitious  T ,  an  unscrupulous  B 

himself,  may  have  been  seduced  to  mislead  our  youth, 
and  teach  our  very  babes  and  sucklings  a  precocious  per- 
verseness?  This  is  getting  to  be  so  very  like  print  that 
I  shall  copy  it  very  likely,'  all  but  the  inspector  part,  for 
a  periodical  with  which  I  am  connected.  Well,  numbers 
of  beautiful  women  were  in  love  with  the  Marquis,  or 
otherwise  subjugated  by  him,  and  the  most  lovely  and 
innocent  of  all,  was  employed  to  go  to  St.  James'  on  a 
drawing-room  day,  and  steal  the  diamonds  of  Lady 
Brompton,  the  mistress  of  his  grace  Prince  Demetri 
Tolstoi,  the  Russian  ambassador,  who  had  lent  Lady 
Brompton  the  diamonds  to  sport  at  St.  James',  before 
he  sent  them  off  to  his  imperial  master  the  Emperor  of 
Russia,  for  whom  the  trifles  in  question  were  purchased. 
Lady  Brompton  came  to  court  having  her  train  held  up 
by  her  jockey;  Susanna  came  to  court,  her  train  like- 
wise carried  by  her  page,  one  or  both  of  them  were  affides 
of  the  association  of  the  "  Gentlemen  of  the  Night." 
The  jockeys  were  changed,  and  Lady  Brompton's  jew- 
els absolutely  taken  ofl"  her  neck.  So  great  was  the  rage 
of  his  grace  Prince  Demetri  Tolstoi,  that  he  threatened 
war  should  be  declared  by  his  emperor  unless  the  bril- 
liants were  restored.  I  don't  know  what  supervened, 
for  exhausted  nature  would  bear  no  more.  But  you 
should  have  seen  the  Court  of  St.  James',  the  beef -eaters, 
the  Life  Guards,  the  heralds  at  arms  in  their  tabards  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  the  ushers  announcing  the 
great  folks,  as  they  went  into  the  presence  of  the  great 
sovereign.  Lady  Campbell,  the  Countess  of  Derby,  and 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  were   announced.     01 

*  He  did  reproduce  part  of  it  in  Punch. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  47 

such  an  archbishop !  he  had  on  a  velvet  trencher  cap,  and 
a  dress  something  hke  our  real  and  venerated  prelates', 
and  a  rich  curling  wig,  and  he  stopped  and  blessed  the 
people,  making  crucificial  signs  on  the  stairs.  The  va- 
rious lords  went  into  the  chamber  in  red  robes  and  long 
flowing  wigs.  The  wonder  of  the  parody  was,  that  it 
was  so  like  and  yet  so  absurdly  unlike.  O'Connell  ap- 
peared, saluted  as  Daniel  by  the  Count  of  Rio  Santo, 
and  announcing  that  he  himself,  though  brise  par  la  lutte 
with  the  oppressors  of  his  country,  yet  strongly  repro- 
bated anything  like  violent  measures  on  the  part  of  M. 
de  Rio  Santo  and  his  fellow-patriots.  The  band  played 
"God  safe  the  Quin "  in  the  most  delightful  absurd 
manner.  The  best  of  it  is  that  these  things,  admirably 
as  they  tickled  me,  are  only  one  degree  more  absurd  than 
what  they  pretend  to  copy.  The  Archbishop  had  a  wig 
only  the  other  day,  though  not  quite  such  a  wig  as  this ; 
the  chiefs  of  the  police  came  in  with  oilskin  hats,  police- 
men's coats  quite  correct,  and  white  tights  and  silk  stock- 
ings, which  made  me  laugh  so,  that  the  people  in  the 
stalls  next  me  didn't  know  what  I  was  at !  But  the  par- 
ody was  in  fine  prodigious,  and  will  afford  matter  to  no 
end  of  a  penny-a-line  speculation.  .  .  .  I  sit  in  my  little 
snug  room  and  say  God  bless  you  and  Mr.  Williams. 
Here  is  near  four  pages  of  Pendennis.  .  .  . 


April,  10th.  1849. 
My  Dear  Persons.— After  lying  in  bed  until  you 
had  reached  Clifton,  exceeding  melancholy  from  want 
of  sleep,  (induced  by  no  romantic  inward  feeling  but 
by  other  causes  much  more  material  and  vulgar,  viz., 
late  smoking,  etc.,  previous  nights)  shall  I  tell  you  what 


48  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

it  was  dissipated  my  blue  devils  ?  As  I  was  going  toward 
London  the  postman  stopped  me  in  the  street  and  asked 
me  if  I  would  take  my  letters,  which  he  handed  to  me: 
—one  was  an  opera-box  which  I  sent  off  to  Mrs.  M. 
for  to  morrow;  and  one  was  a  letter  from  an  attorney 
demanding  instantly  £112  for  that  abominable  Irish 
Railway;  and  in  presence  of  this  real  calamity  all  the 
sentimental  ones  vanished  straight.  I  began  to  think 
how  I  must  raise  the  money,— how  I  must  go  to  work, 
nor  be  shilly-shallying  any  longer;  and  with  this  real 
care  staring  me  in  the  face  I  began  to  forget  imaginary 
grievances  and  to  think  about  going  to  work  immedi- 
ately; and  how  for  the  next  3  months  I  must  screw  and 
save  in  order  to  pay  off  the  money.  And  this  is  the  way, 
M'am,  that  the  grim  duties  of  the  world  push  the  soft 
feelings  aside;  we've  no  time  to  be  listening  to  their 
little  meek  petitions  and  tender  home  prattle  in  presence 
of  the  imperative  Duty  who  says  "  Come,  come,  no  more 
of  this  here,— get  to  work.  Mister"— and  so  we  go  and 
join  the  working  gang,  behind  which  Necessity  marches 
cracking  his  whip.  This  metaphor  has  not  been  worked 
so  completely  as  it  might  be,  but  it  means  that  I  am  re- 
solved to  go  to  work  directly.  So  being  determined  on 
this  I  went  off  at  once  to  the  Star  and  Garter  at  Rich- 
mond and  dined  with  those  2  nice  women  and  their  hus- 
bands, viz,  the  Strutts  and  Romillys.  We  had  every 
sort  of  luxury  for  dinner,  and  afterwards  talked  about 
Vanity  Fair  and  Pendennis  almost  incessantly  (though 
I  declare  I  led  away  the  conversation  at  least  10  times, 
but  they  would  come  back)  so  that  the  evening  was  un- 
commonly pleasant.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  it  came  into 
my  head— I  wonder  what  those  people  at  Clifton  are 
doing;  I  would  give  2/6  to  be  with  them;  but  in  the 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  49 

mean  while  it  must  be  confessed,  the  Star  and  Garter  is 
not  bad.  These  ladies  are  handsome  and  good,  and 
clever,  and  kind;  that  solicitor  general  talks  with  great 
pleasantness;  and  so  I  came  home  in  a  fly  with  an  old 
gentleman  who  knew  Sir  S.  Romilly,  and  we  talked  of 
the  dark  end  of  that  history  of  a  very  good  and  wise 
man,  and  how  he  adored  his  wife  (it  was  her  death  which 
caused  his  suicide) ,  and  how  his  son  was  equally  attached 
to  his  own,  of  whose  affection  for  her  husband  my  in- 
former gave  many  pretty  instances.  This  conversation 
brought  me  to  Kensington,  where  after  thinking  about 
the  £112  a  little,  and  a  little  more  about  some  friends  of 
mine  whom  I  pray  God  to  make  happy,  I  fell  into  a 
great  big  sleep — from  which  I  wake  at  this  present  8 
o'clock  in  the  morning  to  say  Bon  jour,  Madame. 
Where  do  vou  think  this  is  wrote  from?  From  an  at- 
torney's  office,  Old  Jewry.  The  Lord  Mayor,  the  Sher- 
iffs, their  coaches  and  footmen,  in  gold  and  silk  stock- 
ings, have  just  passed  in  a  splendid  procession  through 
the  mud  and  pouring  rain.  I  have  been  to  the  bankers 
to  see  how  much  money  I  have  got.  I  have  got  £120; 
I  owe  £112;  from  £120  take  £112,  leaves  8  for  the  rest 
of  the  month.  Isn't  that  pleasant?  Well,  but  I  know 
how  to  raise  some;— the  bankers  say  I  may  over-draw. 
Things  isn't  so  bad. 

But  now,  (this  is  from  the  Garrick  Club)  now  I  say 
for  the  wonderful  wonder  of  wonders.  There  is  a  chance 
for  Mr.  Williams  such  as  he  little  looked  for.  EMMA 
is  free.  The  great  Catastrophe  has  happened — last 
night  she  and  her  mother  fled  from  the  infamous  R.  and 
took  refuge  at  Mrs.  Procter's  where  they  had  Adelaide's 
and  Agnes'  beds — who  went  and  slept  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Goldsmid  next  door.    Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  called  at  Ken- 


50  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

sington  at  11  o'clock  and  brought  the  news.*  R.  had 
treated  his  wife  infamously;  R.  had  assailed  her  with 
the  most  brutal  language  and  outrages; — that  innocent 

woman  Madame  G ,  poor  thing,  who  meddled  with 

nothing  and  remained  all  day  in  her  own  garret  so  as  to 
give  no  trouble,  was  flung  out  of  the  house  by  him — in- 
deed only  staj^ed  in  order  to  protect  her  daughter's  life. 
The  brute  refused  to  allow  the  famous  picture  to  be 
exhibited— in  fact  is  a  mad-man  and  a  ruffian.  Procter 
and  I  went  off  to  make  peace,  and  having  heard  R.'s 
story,  I  believe  that  he  has  been  more  wronged  than 
they. 

The  mother  in-law  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  mischief. 
It  was  she  who  made  the  girl  marry  R.,  and,  the  mar- 
riage made,  she  declined  leaving  her  daughter;  in  fact, 
the  poor  devil,  who  has  a  bad  temper,  a  foolish  head— 
an  immense  vanity — has  been  victimised  by  the  women 
and  I  pity  him  a  great  deal  more  than  them.  O!  what 
a  comedy  it  would  make!  but  the  separation  I  suppose 
is  final,  and  it  will  be  best  for  both  parties.  It  will  end 
no  doubt  in  his  having  to  pay  a  4th  of  his  income  for  the 
pleasure  of  being  a  month  married  to  her,  and  she  will 
be  an  angelic  martyr,  &c.  I  wonder  whether  you  will 
give  me  a  luncheon  on  Thursday.  I  might  stop  for  2 
hours  on  my  way  to  Taunton  and  make  you  my  hand- 
shake. This  would  be  very  nice.  I  thought  of  writing 
to  Mrs.  Elton  and  ofl'ering  myself,  but  I  should  like 
first  to  have  the  approval  of  Mr.  Williams,  for  after  all, 

^  Mrs.  Procter,  the  wife  of  the  well-known  poet,  Barry  Cornwall,— herself 
a  most  accomplished  woman. — Even  now  at  84  years  of  age  she  retains  the 
brilliant  powers  of  conversation  for  which  she  was  always  celebrated.  She 
was  always  a  faithful  friend  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  who  had  a  sincere  regard 
for  her.  Mrs.  Procter  was  the  mother  of  Adelaide,  who  so  largely  inherited 
her  father's  poetic  powers. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  51 

I  am  not  an  indifferent  person  but  claim  to  rank  as  the 
Afft.  brother  of  both  of  you. 

W.  M.  T. 

Fragment. 
[April,  1849.] 

Yesterday's  wasn't  a  letter,  you  know,  ma'am;  and  T 
am  so  tired  now  of  penmanship,  that  I  don't  think  I  shall 
be  able  to  get  through  one.  I  wish  you  were  on  the  sofa 
in  Portman  Street,  and  that  I  could  go  and  lie  down 
on  the  opposite  one  and  fall  asleep.  Isn't  that  a  polite 
wish?  Well,  I  am  so  beat  that  I  ought  to  go  to  bed,  and 
not  inflict  my  yawns  upon  anyone;  but  I  can't  begin 
snoring  yet.  I  am  waiting  at  the  Club,  till  the  printer's 
boy  brings  the  proofs  of  No.  7,^  which  is  all  done ;  there 
are  two  new  women  in  it,  not  like  anybody  that  you 
know  or  I  know;  your  favourite  INIajor  appears  rather  in 
an  amiable  light,  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  good  or  bad. 
The  latter  probably.  Well,  it  is  done,  that's  a  com- 
fort. .  .  . 

I  am  going  to  dine  with  Lady  Davy  again,  but  Fri- 
day shall  be  a  happy  Friday  for  me,  and  on  Saturday, 
when  you  go  to  Oxbridge,  I  shall  console  myself  by  a 
grand  dinner  at  the  Royal  Academy,  if  you  please,  to 
which  they  have  invited  me,  on  a  great  card  like  a  tea- 
tray.  That's  a  great  honour,  none  but  bishops,  purchas- 
ers, and  other  big-wigs  are  asked.  I  daresay  I  shall  have 
to  make  an  impromptu  speech.  Shall  I  come  to  rehearse 
it  to  you  on  Friday?  I  was  going  to  send  you  a  letter 
t'other  day  from  a  sculptor  who  wants  to  make  my  bust; 
think  of  that !  .  .  . 

*  Pendennis. 


52  LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY 

Here  is  wonderful  Spring  weather  come,  and  the 
leaves  are  sprouting  and  all  the  birds  chirping  melo joy- 
ously. 

I  daresay  you  are  driving  by  Severn's  Shore,  now; 
then  you  will  listen  after  dinner  to  Captain  Budd  on  the 
German  flute ;  then  I  daresay  you  will  sing,  after  a  great 
deal  of  blushing  and  hesitation.  Is  Mrs.  Tidy  jealous 
of  you?  I  daresay  she  thinks  }^ou  are  overrated,  and 
wonders  what  people  see  in  you.    So  do  I.  .  .  . 

Tomorrow  me  and  Annie  and  Minnie  are  going  to  buy 
a  new  gownd  for  Granny,  who  wants  it  very  much. 
Those  old  folks  project  a  tour  to  Switzerland  in  the 
Summer,  did  I  tell  you?  And  my  mother  cannot  part 
with  the  children,  who  must  go  too.  Where  shall  I 
go?  .  .  . 

Here  comes  the  proof; — shall  I  send  this  letter  now  or 
wait  till  tomorrow,  and  have  something  to  say?  perhaps 
I  shall  see  William  tonight.  I  am  going  to  Lady  Love- 
lace's drum  in  Cumberland  Place,  hard-by  Portman 
Street. 

No,  I  didn't  go,  but  came  home  and  fell  asleep  after 
dinner,  from  nine  o'clock  till  now,  which  it  is  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  which  I  am  writing  in  bed.  You 
are  very  likely  looking  at  the  elms  out  of  window  by  this 
time ;  are  they  green  yet  ?  Our  medlar  tree  is.  I  was  to 
have  gone  to  the  old  Miss  Berrys'  too  last  night;  they 
were  delighted  at  the  allusion  in  Punch  to  them,  in  the 
same  number  in  which  you  appear  mending  waistcoats. 
But  Lord  what  a  much  better  thing  going  to  bed  was! 
and  No.  7  completed  with  great  throes  and  disquiet,  only 
yesterday— seems  to  me  ever  so  long  ago— such  a  big 
sleep  have  I  had  I  .  .  . 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  53 

Adelaide  Procter  would  hardly  shake  hands  with  me 

because  of  my  cowardly  conduct  in  the  R affair, 

and  she  told  me  that  I  hadn't  been  to  call  there  since  the 
28th  ^larch  last.    They  keep  a  journal  of  visitors ;  fancy 

that !    I  heard  the  R story  from  the  G herself 

and  the  mother,  and  can  only  make  out  now  that  the  hus- 
band is  mad  and  odious.  What  they  are  to  do  is  the 
difficulty;  he  refuses  to  allow  her  a  shilling;  her  picture 
has  been  rejected  at  the  Academy,  and  why  I  can't  see, 
for  there's  no  English  academician's  who  could  equal 
it,  and  she  must  paint  to  live.  I  shall  give  her  my 
mother  to  do,  I  think.  She  looked  exceedingly  hand- 
some and  interesting  the  other  day;  pale  and  grief - 
stricken,  with  her  enormous  hair  twirled  round  her  head 
— and  yet,  and  yet!  Will  you  kiss  those  little  maids  for 
me,  I  should  like  to  hear  their  prattle  through  the  door. 
I  am  going  to  kill  ]Mrs.  Pendennis  presently,  and  have 
her  ill  in  this  number.  INlinnie  says,  "  O !  papa,  do  make 
her  well  again ;  she  can  have  a  regular  doctor  and  be  al- 
most dead,  and  then  will  come  a  homeopathic  physician 
who  will  make  her  well  you  know."  It  is  very  pretty 
to  see  her  with  her  grandmother.  Let  us  jump  up  now 
and  go  to  breakfast  with  the  children. 


June  12,  1849. 
My  dear  Lady: 

I  send  a  hasty  line  to  say  that  the  good  old  aunt  is  still 
here,  and  was  very  glad  to  see  me  and  another  nephew 
of  hers  who  came  by  the  same  train.  It's  a  great  comfort 
to  my  mother  and  to  her,  that  my  mother  should  be  with 
her  at  this  last  day ;  and  she  is  preparing  to  go  out  of  the 
world,  in  which  she  has  been  living  very  virtuously  for 


54  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

more  than  eighty  years,  as  calmly  and  happily  as  may 
be.  I  don't  know  how  long  she  may  remain,  but  my  duty 
will  be  to  stay  on  I  suppose,  until  the  end,  which  the 
doctor  says  is  very  near;  though  to  see  her  in  her  bed, 
cheerful  and  talking,  one  would  fancy  that  her  sum- 
mons is  not  so  near  as  those  who  are  about  her  imagine. 
So  I  shall  not  see  London  or  my  dear  friends  in  it  for  a 
few  days  very  likely.  Meanwhile  will  you  write  me  a 
line  here  to  tell  me  that  you  are  easier  of  your  pains,  and 
just  to  give  a  comfort  to  your  old  brother  Makepeace. 

I  suppose  I  shall  do  a  great  deal  of  my  month's  work 
here.  I  have  got  a  comfortable  room  at  a  little  snug 
country  inn,  such  as  William  would  like.  I  am  always 
thinking  about  going  to  see  Mrs.  Fanshawe  at  South- 
ampton, about  No.  9  of  Pendennis,  and  about  all  sorts 
of  things.  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Procter,  to  the  City,  and 
to  do  my  business  and  pay  my  horrid  railroad  money. 
The  banker's  clerk  stopped  me  and  said,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon.  Sir,  but  will  you,  if  you  please,  tell  me  the  mean- 
ing of  '  eesthetics,' "  which  I  was  very  much  puzzled  to 
tell— and  here  comes  the  boy  to  say  that  the  note  must 
go  this  instant  to  save  the  post,  and  so  God  bless  Jane 
my  sister  and  William  my  brother. 

Written  from  the  Royal  oak,  Fareham. 

From  the  old  shop,  21. 

[1849] 

Is  it  pouring  with  rain  at  Park  Lodge,  and  the  most 
dismal,  wretched,  cat  and  dog  day  ever  seen?  O!  it's 
gloomy  at  13  Young  Street!  I  have  been  labouring  all 
day — drawing  that  is,  and  doing  my  plates,  till  my  &s 
are  ready  to  drop  off  for  weariness.    But  they  must  not 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  55 

stop  for  yet  a  little  while,  and  until  I  have  said  how  do 
you  do  to  my  dear  lady  and  the  young  folks  at  South- 
ampton. I  hardly  had  time  to  know  I  was  gone,  and 
that  happy  fortnight  was  over,  till  this  morning.     At 

the  train,  whom  do  you  think  I  found?     Miss  G 

who  says  she  is  Blanche  Amory,  and  I  think  she  is 
Blanche  Amory;  amiable  at  times,  amusing,  clever  and 
depraved.  We  talked  and  persiflated  all  the  way  to 
London,  and  the  idea  of  her  will  help  me  to  a  good 
chapter,  in  which  I  will  make  Pendennis  and  Blanche 
play  at  being  in  love,  such  a  wicked  false  humbugging 
London  love,  as  two  blase  London  people  might  act, 
and  half  deceive  themselves  that  they  M'ere  in  earnest. 
That  will  complete  the  cycle  of  ^Ir.  Pen's  worldly  ex- 
periences, and  then  we  will  make,  or  try  and  make,  a 
good  man  of  him.  O!  me,  we  are  wicked  worldlings 
most  of  us,  may  God  better  us  and  cleanse  us ! 

I  wonder  whether  ever  again,  I  shall  have  such  a 
happy  peaceful  fortnight  as  that  last!  How  sunshiny 
the  landscape  remains  in  my  mind,  I  hope  for  always; 
and  the  smiles  of  dear  children.  ...  I  can  hardly  see 
as  I  write  for  the  eye-water,  but  it  isn't  with  grief,  but 
for  the  natural  pathos  of  the  thing.  How  happy  your 
dear  regard  makes  me,  how  it  takes  off  the  solitude  and 
eases  it;  may  it  continue,  pray  God,  till  your  head  is 
white  as  mine,  and  our  children  have  children  of  their 
own.  Instead  of  being  unhappy  because  that  delightful 
holiday  is  over  or  all  but  over,  I  intend  that  the  thoughts 
of  it  should  serve  to  make  me  only  the  more  cheerful  and 
help  me,  please  God,  to  do  my  duty  better.  All  such 
pleasures  ought  to  brace  and  strengthen  one  against 
work  days,  and  lo,  here  they  are.  I  hope  you  will  be  im- 
mensely punctual  at  breakfast  and  dinner,  and  do  all 


56  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

j^our  business  of  life  with  cheerfulness  and  briskness, 
after  the  example  of  holy  Philip  Neri,  whom  you  wot 
of;  that  is  your  duty  Madame,  and  mine  is  to  "pursue 
my  high  calling;"  and  so  I  go  back  to  it  with  a  full 
grateful  heart,  and  say  God  bless  all.  If  it  hadn't  been 
pouring-o'-rain  so,  I  think  I  should  have  gone  off  to 
His  Reverence  at  Brighton ;  so  I  send  him  my  very  best 
regards,  and  a  whole  box  full  of  kisses  to  the  children. 
Farewell. 


Note  from  Thackeray  (actual  size). 


[To  Mr.  Brookfield.] 

25  April  1849. 

My  Dear  Vieux: 

Will  ye  dine  with  me  on  Friday  at  the  G?  My  work 
will  be  just  over  on  that  day,  and  bedad,  we'll  make  a 
night  of  it,  and  go  to  the  play.  On  Thursday  I  shall 
dine  here  and  Sunday  most  yrohhly,  and  shall  we  go  to 
Richmond  on  Sunday?  Make  your  game  and  send  me 
word.  Ever  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  57 

P.  S.  Having  occasion  to  write  to  a  man  in  Blooms- 
bury  Place,  and  to  Lady  Davy,  I  mixed  up  the  ad- 
dresses and  am  too  mean  to  throw  away  the  envelope, 
so  give  you  the  benefit  of  the  same. 

[1849.] 

Monday. 

My  letter  to-day,  dear  lady,  must  needs  be  a  very 
short  one,  for  the  post  goes  in  half  an  hour,  and  I've 
been  occupied  all  day  with  my  own  business  and  other 
people's.  At  three  o'clock,  just  as  I  was  in  full  work 
comes  a  letter  from  a  protegee  of  my  mother's,  a  cer- 
tain Madame  de  B.  informing  me  that  she,  Madame 
de  B.,  had  it  in  view  to  commit  suicide  immediately, 
unless  she  could  be  in  some  measure  relieved  (or  re- 
leived,  which  is  it?)  from  her  present  difficulties.  So  I 
have  had  to  post  off  to  this  Madame  de  B.,  whom  I 
expected  to  find  starving,  and  instead  met  a  woman  a 
great  deal  fatter  than  the  most  full-fed  person  need  be, 
and  having  just  had  a  good  dinner;  but  that  didn't  pre- 
vent her,  the  confounded  old  fiend,  from  abusing  the 
woman  who  fed  her  and  was  good  to  her,  from  spoiling 
the  half  of  a  day's  work  for  me,  and  taking  me  of  a 
fool's  errand.  I  was  quite  angry,  instead  of  a  corpse 
perhaps,  to  find  a  fat  and  voluble  person  who  had  no 
more  idea  of  hanging  herself  to  the  bed-post  than  you 
or  I  have.  However,  I  got  a  character  in  making 
Madame  de  B's  acquaintance,  and  some  day  she  will 
turn  up  in  that  inevitable  repertory  of  all  one's 
thoughts  and  experiences  que  vous  savez. 

Thence,  as  it  was  near,  I  went  to  see  a  sick  poetess, 

who  is  pining  away  for  love  of  S M ,  that  you 

have  heard  of,  and  who  literally  has  been  brought  near 


58  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

to  the  grave  by  that  amorous  malady.  She  is  very 
interesting  somehow,  ghastly  pale  and  thin,  recumbent 
on  a  sofa,  and  speaking  scarcely  above  her  breath.  I 
wonder  though  after  all,  was  it  the  love,  or  was  it  the 
bronchitis,  or  was  it  the  chest  or  the  spine  that  was 
affected?  All  I  know  is  that  Don  Saville  may  have 
made  love  to  her  once,  but  has  tried  his  hand  in  other 
quarters  since,  and  you  know  one  doesn't  think  the 
worse  of  a  man  of  honour  for  cheating  in  affairs  of  the 
heart.  The  numbers  that  I  myself  have— fiddledee,  this 
is  nonsense. 

The  Reform  banquet  was  very  splendid  and  dull 
enough.  A  bad  dinner  and  bad  wine,  and  pretty  fair 
speaking;  my  friend  fat  James  being  among  not  the 
least  best  of  the  speakers.  They  all  speak  in  a  kind 
of  sing-song  or  chant,  without  which  I  suppose  it  is 
impossible  for  the  orator  nowadays  to  pitch  his  sen- 
tences, and  Madam,  you  are  aware  that  the  Romans 
had  a  pipe  when  they  spoke;  not  a  pipe  such  as  your 
husband  uses,  but  a  pitch-pipe.  I  wanted  to  have  gone 
to  smoke  a  last  calumet  at  poor  dear  old  Portman  Street, 
but  our  speechifiers  did  not  stop  till  12.30  and  not  then; 
but  the  best  of  them  had  fired  off  by  that  time  and  I 
came  off.  Yesterday,  after  devoting  the  morning  to 
composition,  I  went  and  called  on  the  Rev.  W.  H. 
Brookfield,  whom  I  found  very  busy  packing  up  and 
wishing  me  at  Jericho,  so  I  went  to  the  Miss  Leslies' 
and  Captn.  Morgan,  the  American  Captain;  and  then 
to  dine  at  Hampstead,  where  the  good  natured  folks 
took  in  me  and  the  two  young  ones.  Finally,  in  the 
evening  to  Lady  Tennent's,  where  I  have  been  most 
remiss  in  visit-paying,  for  I  like  her,  and  she  was  a 
kind  old  friend  to  me.    To-day  I  am  going  to  dine  with 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  59 

the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Bedford,  afterwards  to  Mrs. 

Procter's,  afterwards  to  Lady  Granville's.     Here  you 

have  your  humble  servant's  journal,  and  you  see  his 

time  is  pretty  well  occupied.     I  have  had  a  good  deal 

of  the  children  too,  and  am  getting  on  apace  with  my 

number,  though  I  don't  like  it.     Shall  I  send  you  some 

of  it?    No,  I  won't,  though  if  I  do  a  very  good  piece 

indeed,  perhaps  I  may.    I  think  I  shall  go  to  Brighton; 

I  think  you  will  be  away  six  weeks  at  least ;  and  I  hope 

to  hear  that  my  dear  lady  is  well  and  that  she  remembers 

her  affectionate  old  friend 

Makepeace. 


1849. 
[To  Mr.  Brookfield] 

My  dear  Vieux: 

A  long  walk  and  stroll  in  Richmond  Park  yesterday, 
a  blue  followed  by  a  black  this  morning,  have  left  me 
calmer,  exhausted,  but  melancholy.  I  shall  dine  at  the 
Garrick  at  seven  o'clock  or  so,  and  go  to  the  Lyceum 
afterwards.  Come  into  town  if  you  get  this  in  time  and 
let  us  go.   .    .    . 

Get  David  Copperfield,  by  Jingo  it's  beautiful;  it 
beats  the  yellow  chap  of  this  month  hollow. 

W.  M.  T. 

Will  5^ou  send  me  two  cigars  per  bearer?  I  am  work- 
ing with  three  pipe-smoking  Frenchmen,  and  I  can't 
smoke  their  abominations,  and  I  hope  Madame  is  pretty 
well  after  her  triumphant  debut  last  night. 


60  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

[1849] 

Reform  Club,  Tuesday— 
My  dear  Lady: 

I  write  only  a  word  and  in  the  greatest  hurry  to  say 
I  am  very  well  in  health.  I've  been  at  work,  and  have 
written  somewhat  and  done  my  two  plates,  which  only 
took  two  hours;  and  now  that  they're  done,  I  feel  that 
I  want  so  to  come  back  to  Ryde,  I  must  get  a  rope  or  a 
chain  to  bind  myself  down  to  my  desk  here.^  All  the 
world  is  out  of  town — INIrs.  Procter  not  at  home,  perhaps 
to  my  visit, — dear  kind  Kate  Perry  whom  indeed  I  like 
with  all  my  heart  just  packing  up  to  go  to  Brighton. 
My  Chesterfield  loves  flown  away  to  Tunbridge  Wells, 
and  so  I  am  alone  and  miss  you.  I  sent  your  package 
off  to  Harry  this  morning.  The  lucky  rogue!  I  sup- 
pose he  will  see  Madam  and  all  those  kind  Ryde  folks. 
Tell  them  if  you  please  how  very  grateful  I  am  to  them 
for  their  good  nature.  I  can't  help  fancying  them  rela- 
tions rather  than  friends. 

I  got  some  dinner;  at  lOl  o'clock  I  drank  to  the 
health  of  Madame  Ma  bonne  soeur;— I  hadn't  the 
courage  to  go  home  till  past  midnight,  when  all  the 
servants  got  out  of  bed  to  let  me  in.  There  was  such 
a  heap  of  letters !  I  send  you  a  couple  which  may  amuse 
you.  Send  me  Colonel  Ferguson's  back,  as  I  must 
answer  him;  but  I  don't  think  I  shall  be  able  to  get 
away  in  August  to  Scotland.  Who  can  the  excoriated 
female  be  who  imparts  her  anguish  to  me?  what  raw 
wound  has  the  whip  of  the  satirist  been  touching?  As 
1  was  sitting  with  my  Frenchmen  at  3  o'clock,  I  thought 

•  Mr.  Thackeray  had  been  spending  a  few  days  at  Ryde  with 
my  brother  and  his  wife,  where  I  was  staying. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  61 

to  myself  O  Lor !  IMr.  Makepeace,  how  much  better  you 
were  off  yesterday ! 

Good  bye  dear  lady,  God  bless  every  kind  person  of 
all  those  who  love  you.— I  feel  here,  you  must  know, 
just  as  I  used  five  and  twenty  j^ears  ago  at  school,  the 
day  after  coming  back  from  the  holidays.  If  you  have 
nothing  to  say  to  me,  pray  write ;  if  you  have  something, 
of  course  you  will.  Good  bye,  shake  hands,  I  am  always 
my  dear  lady's  sincere 

W.  M.  T. 

[1849] 

Last  night  was  a  dinner  at  Spencer  Cowper's,  the 
man  who  used  to  be  called  the  fortunate  youth  some 
few  years  back,  when  £10,000,  or  perhaps  £20,000  a 
year,  was  suddenly  left  him  by  a  distant  relative,  and 
when  he  was  without  a  guinea  in  the  world.  It  was  a 
Sybaritic  repast,  in  a  magnificent  apartment,  and  we 
were  all  of  us  young  voluptuaries  of  fashion.  There 
were  portraits  of  Louis  Quatorze  ladies  round  the  room 
(I  was  going  to  say  salle  a  inanger,  but  room  after  all 
is  as  good  a  word) .  We  sat  in  the  comfortablest  arm 
chairs,  and  valets  went  round  every  instant  filling  our 
glasses  with  the  most  exquisite  liquors.  The  glasses 
were  as  big  as  at  Kinglake's  dinner — do  you  remember 
Kinglake's  feast.  Ma'am?  Then  we  adjourned  into 
wadded  drawing  rooms,  all  over  sofas  and  lighted  with 
a  hundred  candles,  where  smoking  was  practised,  and 
we  enjoyed  a  pleasant  and  lively  conversation,  carried 
on  in  the  2  languages  of  which  we  young  dogs  are  per- 
fect masters.  As  I  came  away  at  midnight  I  saw  C.'s 
carriage  lamps  blazing  in  the  courtyard,  keeping  watch 
until  the  fortunate  youth  should  come  out  to  pay  a  visit 


62  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

to  some  Becky  no  doubt.  The  young  men  were  clever, 
very  frank  and  gentlemenlike ;  one,  rather  well-read; 
quite  as  pleasant  companions  as  one  deserves  to  meet, 
and  as  for  your  humble  servant,  he  saw  a  chapter  or  two 
of  Pendennis  in  some  of  them. 

I  am  going  with  M.  to-day,  to  see  Alexis  the  som- 
nambulist. She  came  yesterday  evening  and  talked  to 
me  for  two  hours  before  dinner.  I  astonished  her  by 
finding  out  her  secrets  by  some  of  those  hits  que  vous 
savez — Look,  here  is  a  bit  of  paper  with  a  note  to  her 
actually  commenced  in  reply  to  my  dearest  William, — 
but  I  couldn't  get  out  my  dearest  M.  in  return,  and 
stopped  at  "My"—.  But  I  like  her  better  than  I  did, 
— and  begin  to  make  allowances  for  a  woman  of  great 
talents  married  to  a  stupid,  generous,  obstinate,  devoted 
heavy  dragoon,  thirty  years  her  senior.  My  dear  old 
mother  with  her  imperial  manner  tried  to  take  the  com- 
mand of  both  of  them,  and  was  always  anxious  to  make 
them  understand  that  I  was  the  divinest  creature  in  the 
world,  whose  shoestrings  neither  of  them  was  fit  to  tie. 
Hence  bickerings,  hatreds,  secret  jealousies  and  open 
revolt,  and  I  can  fancy  them  both  worked  up  to  a  pitch 
of  hatred  of  me,  that  my  success  in  life  must  have  ren- 
dered only  more  bitter. 

But  about  Alexis— this  wonder  of  wonders  reads  let- 
ters and  tells  you  their  contents  and  the  names  of  their 
authors  without  even  thinking  of  opening  the  seal;  and 
I  want  you  very  much,  if  you  please,  and  instantly  on 
receipt  of  this  to  send  me  a  bit  of  your  hair  that  I  may 
have  a  consultation  on  it.  Mind  you,  I  don't  want  it  for 
myself;  I  pledge  you  my  word  I'll  burn  it,  or  give  you 
back  every  single  hair.  .  .  .  but  do  if  you  please, 
mum,  gratify  my  curiosity  in  this  matter  and  consult 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  63 

the  soothsayer  regarding  you.  M.  showed  him  letters, 
and  vows  he  is  right  in  every  particular.  And  as  I 
sha'n't  be  very  long  here  I  propose  by  return  of  post, 
for  this  favour. 

Are  j^ou  going  to  dine  at  Lansdowne  House  on 
Saturday?  The  post  is  come  in  and  brought  me  an 
invitation,  and  a  letter  from  my  Ma,  and  my  daughters, 
but  none  from  my  sister.  Are  you  ill  again,  dear  lady? 
Don't  be  ill,  God  bless  you— good  bye.  I  shall  write 
again  if  you  please,  but  I  sha'n't  be  long  before  I  come. 
Don't  be  ill,  I  am  afraid  you  are.  You  hav'n't  been 
to  Kensington.  My  love  to  Mr.  Wilhams,  farewell,  and 
write  tomorrow. 


1849. 

[To  Mr.  Brookfield] 

My  dear  Vieux  : 

If  you  come  home  in  any  decent  time  I  wish  you 
would  go  off  to  poor  Mrs.  Crowe  at  Hampstead.^  A 
letter  has  just  come,  from  Eugenie,  who  describes  the 
poor  lady  as  low,  wretched,  and  hysterical — she  may 
drop.  Now  a  word  or  two  of  kindness  from  a  black 
coat  might  make  all  the  difference  to  her,  and  who  so 
able  to  administer  as  your  reverence?  I  am  going  out 
myself  to  laugh,  talk  and  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
soothe  and  cheer  her;  but  the  professional  man  is  the 
best,  depend  upon  it,  and  I  wish  you  would  stretch  a 
point  in  order  to  see  her. 

Yours  till  this  evening. 

*  Mrs.  Crowe,  mother  of  Eyre  Crowe,  the  well-known  artist,  who  went  with 
Mr.  Thackeray  to  America  on  his  first  tour  there,  and  who  was  always  one 
of  his  most  faithful  friends. 


64  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

[1849], 

[To  Mr.  Brook  field] 

My  dear  Vieux: 

I  wish  you  would  go  and  call  upon  Lady  Ashburton. 
Twice  Ashburton  has  told  me  that  she  wants  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  and  twice  remarked  that  it  would  be 
but  an  act  of  politeness  in  you  to  call  on  a  lady  in  dis- 
tress, who  wants  your  services.  Both  times  I  have  said 
that  you  are  uncommonly  proud  and  shy,  and  last  night 
told  him  he  had  best  call  on  you,  which  he  said  he  should 
hasten  to  do.  But  surely  you  might  stretch  a  leg  over 
the  barrier  when  there's  a  lady  actually  beckoning  to 
you  to  come  over,  and  such  an  uncommonly  good  din- 
ner laid  on  the  other  side.  There  was  a  vacant  place 
yesterday,  as  you  might  have  had,  and  such  a  company 
of  jolly  dogs,  St.  Davids,  Hallam  sen'r  and  ever  so 
many  more  of  our  set.    Do  come  if  you  can,  and  believe 

me  to  be  yours, 

A.  Pendennis,  Major  H.P. 


To  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Broohfield. 

Monday. 
My  dear  Vieux: 

A.  Sterling  ^  dines  with  me  at  the  Garrick  at  seven  on 
Friday;  I  hope  you  will  come  too.  And  on  Friday  the 
21st.  June,  Mr.  Thackeray  requests  the  pleasure  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brookfield's  and  Mr.  Henry  Hallam's 
company  at  dinner  at  7.30  to  meet  Sir  Alexander  and 

*  A.  Sterling,  brother  to  John  Sterling  of  whom  Carlyle  wrote  the  life. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  65 

Lady  DufF  Gordon,  Sir  Henry  and  Lady  De  Bathe 
&c.  &c.  I  hope  you  will  both  come  to  this,  please;  you 
ought  to  acknowledge  the  kindness  of  the  key,^.  and 
those  kind  Gordons  will  like  to  see  you. 


About  1849. 
My  dear  Lady: 

A  note  comes  asking  me  to  dine  tomorrow  with  Mr. 
Benedict/  close  by  you  at  No.  2  Manchester  Square, 
to  meet  IMdme  Jenny  Lind.  I  reply  that  a  lady  is  com- 
ing to  dine  wath  my  mother,  whom  I  must  of  course 
meet,  but  that  I  hope  jNIrs.  B.  will  allow  me  to  come  to 
her  in  the  evening  with  my  mamma  and  this  lady  under 
each  arm,  and  I  promise  they  will  look  and  behave  well. 
Now  suppose  Mrs.  S.  and  I  were  to  come  and  dine  with 
you,  or  my  mother  alone,  if  you  liked  to  have  her  better ; 
yes,  that  would  be  best,  and  I  could  come  at  nine  o'clock 
and  accompany  you  to  the  Swedish  nightingale. 

I  am  as  usual 

Your  obedient  servant 

Claeence  Bulbul. 


[1849] 
My  dear  Lady: 

It  was  begun,  "  dear  Sir,"  to  somebody  of  the  other 

sex.     I  think  it  is  just  possible,  that  Mr.  William  on 

returning  to-day,  may  like  to  have  his  wife  to  himself, 

and  that  the  appearance  of  my  eternal  countenance 

might  be  a  bore,  hence  I  stay  slwsly.   .    .    . 

*  The  key  of  the  Portman  Square  Garden  which  was  kindly  lent  to  me. 

*  Mr.  Benedict,  the  lace  lamented  and  kindly  musician,  Sir  Julius  Benedict. 


66  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

And  about  tomorrow,  the  birthday  of  my  now 
motherless  daughter,  Miss  Annie.  Will  you  come  out, 
— being  as  I  must  consider  you,  if  you  please,  the  chil- 
dren's aunt, — at  two,  or  three  o'clk,  or  so,  and  take 
innocent  pleasures  with  them,  such  as  the  Coliseum  and 
the  Zoological  Gardens?  and  are  you  free  so  as  to  give 
them  some  dinner  or  tea  in  the  evening?  I  dine  out 
myself  at  8  o'clock,  and  should  like  them  to  share  inno- 
cent pleasures  with  their  relation. 

My  mother  writes  from  Fareham  that  the  old 
great  aunt  is  better,  and  will  not  depart  probably  yet 
awhile. 

And  now  concerning  Monday.  You  two  must  please 
remember  that  you  are  engaged  to  this  house  at  seven. 
I  have  written  to  remind  the  Scotts,  to  ask  the  Pollocks, 
and  the  Carlyles  are  coming. 

And  now  with  regard  to  this  evening,  I  dine  in 
Westbourne  Terrace,  then  I  must  go  to  Marshall's 
in  Eaton  Square  and  then  to  Mrs.  Sartoris,  where  I 
don't  expect  to  see  you ;  but  if  a  gentleman  of  the  name 
of  W.  H.  B.  should  have  a  mind  to  come,  we  might 
&c.  &c. 

Madam,  I  hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  walk  on 
Clapham's  breezy  common,  and  that  you  are  pretty  well. 
I  myself  was  very  quiet,  went  with  the  children  to 
Hampstead,  and  then  to  the  Opera,  and  only  one  party. 
I  am  writing  at  the  Reform  Club,  until  four  o'clock, 
when  I  have  an  engagement  with  O!  such  a  charming 
person,  and  tete-a-tete  too.  Well,  it's  with  the  dentist's 
arm  chair,  but  I  should  like  to  have  the  above  queries 
satisfactorily  answered,  and  am  always  Madam's 

W.  M.  T. 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  67 

13  July  1849 

From  Brighton. 

Now  for  to  go  to  begin  that  long  letter  which  I  have 
a  right  to  send  you,  after  keeping  silence,  or  the  next 
thing  to  silence,  for  a  whole  week.  As  I  have  nothing 
to  tell  about,  it  is  the  more  likely  to  be  longer  and  fun- 
nier— no,  not  funnier,  for  I  believe  I  am  generally  most 
funnj'^  when  I  am  most  melancholy, — and  who  can  be 
melancholy  with  such  air,  ocean  and  sunshine?  not  if 
I  were  going  to  be  hanged  tomorrow  could  I  afford  to 
be  anything  but  exceedingly  lazy,  hungry  and  comfort- 
able. Why  is  a  day's  Brighton  the  best  of  doctors?  I 
don't  mean  this  for  a  riddle,  but  I  got  up  hungry,  and 
have  been  yawning  in  the  sun  like  a  fat  lazzarone,  with 
great  happiness  all  day.  I  have  got  a  window  with  a 
magnificent  prospect,  a  fresh  sea  breeze  blowing  in, 
such  a  blue  sea  yonder  as  can  scarcely  be  beat  by  the 
Naples  or  the  IMediterranean  blue ;  and  have  passed  the 
main  part  of  the  morning  reading  O!  such  a  stupid 
book,  Fanny  Hervey,  the  new  intime  novel  of  the  sea- 
son, as  good  as  ^liss  Austen's  people  say.  In  two  hours 
I  am  engaged  to  dinner  in  London.  Well,  I  have 
broken  with  that  place  thank  Heaven,  for  a  little,  and 
shall  only  go  back  to  do  my  plates  and  to  come  away. 
Whither  to  go?  I  have  a  fancy  that  Ryde  in  the  Isle 
of  Wight  would  be  as  nice  a  place  as  any  for  idling, 
for  sketching,  for  dawdling,  and  getting  health ;  but  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Brookfield  must  determine  this  for  me,  and 
I  look  to  see  him  here  in  a  day  or  two. 

.  .  .  I  wish  they  had  called  me  sooner  to  dinner; 
there's  only  one  man  staying  at  this  house,  and  he 
asked  me  at  breakfast  in  a  piteous  tone,  to  let  him  dine 


68  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

with  me.  If  we  were  two,  he  said,  the  rules  of  the  club 
would  allow  us  a  joint, — as  if  this  luxury  would  tempt 
the  voluptuary  who  pens  these  lines.  He  has  come 
down  here  suffering  from  indigestion,  and  with  a  fatal 
dying  look,  which  I  have  seen  in  one  or  two  people 
before;  he  rushed  wildly  upon  the  joint  and  devoured 
it  with  famished  eagerness.  He  said  he  had  been  curate 
of  St.  James,  Westminster, — whereupon  I  asked  if  he 
knew  my  friend  Brookfield.  "  jNIy  successor,"  says  he, 
"  a  very  able  man,  very  good  fellow,  married  a  very  nice 
woman."  Upon  my  word  he  said  all  this,  and  of  course 
it  was  not  my  business  to  contradict  him.  He  said,  no, 
he  didn't  say,  but  the  waiter  said,  without  my  asking, 
that  his  name  was  ]Mr.  Palmer;  and  then  he  asked  if 
Brookfield  had  any  children,  so  I  said  I  believed  not, 
and  began  to  ask  about  his  own  children.  How  queer 
it  seemed  to  be  talking  in  this  way,  and  what  27d  inci- 
dents to  tell;  but  there  are  no  others;  nobody  is  here. 
The  paper  this  morning  announced  the  death  of  dear 
old  Horace  Smith,  ^  that  good  serene  old  man,  who  went 
out  of  the  world  in  charity  with  all  in  it,  and  having 
shown  through  his  life,  as  far  as  I  knew  it,  quite  a 
delightful  love  of  God's  works  and  creatures, — a  true, 
loj^al,  Christian  man.  So  was  JNIorier,  of  a  different 
order,  but  possessing  that  precious  natural  quality  of 
love,  which  is  awarded  to  some  lucky  minds  such  as 
these,  Charles  Lambs,  and  one  or  two  more  in  our 
trade ;  to  many  amongst  the  parsons  I  think ;  to  a  friend 
of  yours  by  the  name  of  INIakepeace,  perhaps,  but  not 
unalloyed  ta  this  one.    O !  God  purify  it,  and  make  my 

^  Horace  Smith  and  his  brother  were  the  authors  of  "  Rejected  Addresses." 
The  two  Miss  Horace  Smiths  are  still  living  at  Brighton,  where  Mr.  Thack- 
eray speaks  of  meeting  them  after  his  illness.  Their  society  is  still  much 
sought  after. 


In  the  Nursery  at  Clevedon  Court 

From  the  Clevedon  Drawings 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  69 

heart  clean.  After  dinner  and  a  drive  on  the  sea  shore, 
I  came  home  to  an  evening's  reading  which  took  place 
as  follows — 

Mum,  4v  fU  Jul  JLo*  |  c*<w  U^nM  6  Au<^2l^  Z*a^uvi  u^  t^ 


Wi^  4i^^  4iUim  Au4 
itruw  .  IK.  4.  UuaU  \Z  J\^Ai,XuH4,  <u4  \kauc  U  UA*.  I  j(*<Jt  (*mfcA 

It  is  always  so  with  my  good  intentions,  and  I  woke 
about  dawn,  and  found  it  was  quite  time  to  go  to  bed. 
But  the  solitude  and  idleness  I  think  is  both  cheerful 
and  wholesome.  I've  a  mind  to  stay  on  here,  and  begin 
to  hope  I  shall  write  a  stronger  number  of  Pendennis 
than  some  of  the  last  ones  have  been.  The  Clevedon 
plan  was  abandoned  before  I  came  away;  some  place 
in  S.  Wales,  I  forget  what,  was  fixed  upon  by  the  old 
folks.  I  would  go  with  them,  but  one  has  neither  the 
advantage  of  society  nor  of  being  alone,  and  it  is  best 
to  follow  my  own  ways.  What  a  flood  of  egotism  is 
being  poured  out  on  you!  Well,  I  do  think  of  some 
other  people  in  the  world  besides  myself. 

***** 


70     LETTERS  OF  THACKERAY 

1849. 

Brighton,  Saturday— Monday. 
Thank  you  for  your  letter,  dear  ]Mrs.  Brookfield;  it 
made  this  gay  place  look  twice  as  gay  yesterday  when 
I  got  it.  Last  night  when  I  had  come  home  to  work, 
two  men  spied  a  light  in  my  room,  and  came  in  and 
began  smoking.  They  talked  about  racing  and  the  odds 
all  the  time.  One  of  them  I  am  happy  to  say  is  a  lord, 
and  the  other  a  Brighton  buck.  When  they  were  gone 
(and  indeed  I  listened  to  them  with  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  for  I  like  to  hear  people  of  all  sorts,)  at  mid- 
night, and  in  the  quiet  I  read  your  letter  over  again, 
and  one  from  INIiss  Annie,  and  from  my  dear  old 
mother,  who  is  to  come  on  the  12th.  and  whose  heart 
is  yearning  for  her  children.  I  must  be  at  home  to 
receive  her,  and  some  days,  ten  or  so  at  least,  to  make 
her  comfortable,  so  with  many  thanks  for  Mrs.  Elton's 
invitation,  I  must  decline  it  for  the  present  if  you 
please.  You  may  be  sure  I  went  the  very  first  thing  to 
Virginia  and  her  sisters,  who  were  very  kind  to  me,  and 
I  think  are  very  fond  of  me,  and  their  talk  and  beauty 
consoled  me,  for  my  heart  was  very  sore  and  I  was  ill 
and  out  of  spirits.  A  change,  a  fine  air,  a  wonderful 
sunshine  and  moonlight,  and  a  great  Spectacle  of  happy 
people  perpetually  rolling  by,  has  done  me  all  the  good 
in  the  world,  and  then  one  of  the  ]Miss  Smiths  ^  told  me 
a  story  which  is  the  very  thing  for  the  beginning  of 

'  The  Miss  Smiths  here  referred  to  are  the  daughters  of  the  late  Horace 
Smith,  author  of  "  Rejected  Addresses." 

The  Virginia  here  mentioned  was  the  beautiful  Miss  Pattle,  then  in  her 
earliest  youth,  and  who  is  now  the  widow  of  the  late  Earl  Somers.  In  those 
days  she  lived  with  her  sister  and  her  husband,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thoby  Prinsep, 
at  Little  Holland  House,  Kensington,  where  they  gathered  around  them  a 
charming  society  and  where  Mr.  Thackeray  was  ever  welcomed,  almost  as 
one  of  the  family.    Their  garden  parties  will  ever  be  remembered. 


LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY  71 

Pendennis,  which  is  actually  begun  and  in  progress. 
This  is  a  comical  beginning  rather.  The  other,  which 
I  didn't  like  was  sentimental,  and  will  yet  come  in  very 
well  after  the  startling  comical  business  has  been  played 
off.  See  how  beautifully  I  have  put  stops  to  the  last 
sentence,  and  crossed  the  t's  and  dotted  the  i's!  It  was 
written  four  hours  ago,  before  dinner,  before  Jullien's 
concert,  before  a  walk  by  the  sea  shore. — I  have  been 
thinking  what  a  number  of  ladies,  and  gentlemen  too, 
live  like  you  just  now,  in  a  smart  papered  rooms,  with 
rats  gnawing  behind  the  wainscot;  Be  hanged  to  the 
rats,  but  they  are  a  sort  of  company.  You  must  have  a 
poker  ready,  and  if  the  rats  come  out,  hang!  beat  them 
on  the  head.  This  is  an  allegory,  why,  it  would  work 
up  into  a  little  moral  poem  if  you  chose  to  write  it. 
JuUien  was  splendid  in  his  white  waistcoat,  and  played 
famous  easy  music  which  anybody  may  comprehend  and 
like.  There  was  a  delightful  cornet  a  piston,  (mark 
the  accent  on  the  a) .  The  fact  is  I  am  thinking  about 
something  else  all  the  while  and  am  very  tired  and 
weary,  but  I  thought  I  would  like  to  say  good  night 
to  you,  and  what  news  shall  I  give  you  just  for  the  last? 
Well  then,  INIiss  Virginia  is  gone  away,  not  to  come  back 
while  I  am  here.    Good  night,  ma'am,  if  you  please. 

.  .  .  Being  entirely  occupied  with  my  two  new 
friends,  IVIrs.  Pendennis  and  her  son  jNIr.  Arthur  Pen- 
dennis, I  got  up  very  early  again  this  morning,  and 
was  with  them  for  more  than  two  hours  before  break- 
fast. He  is  a  very  good  natured  generous  young  fel- 
low, and  I  begin  to  like  him  considerably.  I  wonder 
whether  he  is  interesting  to  me  from  selfish  reasons  and 
because  I  fancy  we  resemble  each  other  in  many  points, 
and  whether  I  can  get  the  public  to  like  him  too?    We 


72  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

had  the  most  magnificent  sunshine  Sunday,  and  I 
passed  the  evening  very  rationally  with  ]Mr.  Fonblanque 
and  Mr.  Sheil,  a  great  orator  of  whom  perhaps  you 
have  heard,  at  present  lying  here  afflicted  with  gout,  and 
with  such  an  Irish  wife.  Never  was  a  truer  saying  than 
that  those  people  are  foreigners.  They  have  neither 
English  notions,  manners,  nor  morals.  I  mean  what 
is  right  and  natural  to  them,  is  absurd  and  unreasonable 
to  us.  It  was  as  good  as  Mrs.  O'Dowd  to  hear  Mrs. 
Sheil  interrupt  her  Richard  and  give  her  opinions  on 
the  state  of  Ireland,  to  those  two  great,  hard-headed, 
keen,  accomplished  men  of  the  world.  Richard  listened 
to  her  foolishness  with  admirable  forbearance  and  good 
humour.  I  am  afraid  I  don't  respect  your  sex  enough, 
though.  Yes  I  do,  when  they  are  occupied  with  loving 
and  sentiment  rather  than  with  other  business  of  life. 

I  had  a  mind  to  send  you  a  weekly  paper  containing 
contemptuous  remarks  regarding  an  author  of  your 
acquaintance.  I  don't  know  who  this  critic  is,  but  he 
always  has  a  shot  at  me  once  a  month,  and  I  bet  a 
guinea  he  is  an  Irishman. 

So  we  have  got  the  cholera.  Are  you  looking  out  for 
a  visit?  Did  you  try  the  Stethoscope,  and  after  listen- 
ing at  your  chest,  did  it  say  that  your  lungs  were  sore? 


Fragment. 

[1849.] 

I  am  going  to  dine  at  the  Berrys  to-day  and  to  Lady 
Ashburton's  at  night.  I  dined  at  home  three  days  run- 
ning, think  of  that.  This  is  my  news,  it  isn't  much  is  it? 
I  have  written  a  wicked  number  of  Pendennis,  but  like 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  73 

it  rather,  it  has  a  good  moral,  I  believe,  although  to  some 
it  may  appear  naughty.  Big  Higgins  ^  who  dined  with 
me  yesterday  offered  me,  what  do  you  think?  "If" 
says  he,  "  you  are  tired  and  want  to  lie  fallow  for  a  j^^ear, 
come  to  me  for  tlie  money.  I  have  much  more  than  I 
want."  Wasn't  it  kind?  I  like  to  hear  and  to  tell  of 
kind  things. 

Wednesday.  1849. 
What  have  I  been  doing  since  these  many  days?  I 
hardly  know.  I  have  written  such  a  stupid  number  of 
Pendennis  in  consequence  of  not  seeing  you,  that  I  shall 
be  ruined  if  you  are  to  stay  away  much  longer.  .  .  . 
Has  William  written  to  you  about  our  trip  to  Hamp- 
stead  on  Sunday?  It  was  very  pleasant.  We  went  first 
to  St.  Mark's  church,  where  I  always  thought  you  went, 
but  where  the  pew  opener  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
person  as  Mrs.  J.  O.  B.;  and  having  heard  a  jolly  and 
perfectly  stupid  sermon,  walked  over  Primrose  Hill  to 
the  Crowes',  where  His  Reverence  gave  Mrs.  Crowe  half 
an  hour's  private  talk,  whilst  I  was  talking  under 
the  blossoming  apple  tree  about  newspapers  to  Monsieur 
Crowe.  Well,  Mrs.  Crowe  was  delighted  with  William 
and  his  manner  of  discoorsing  her ;  and  indeed  though  I 
say  it  that  shouldn't,  from  what  he  said  afterwards,  and 
from  what  we  have  often  talked  over  pipes  in  private, 
that  is  a  pious  and  kind  soul.  I  mean  his,  and  calculated 
to  soothe  and  comfort  and  appreciate  and  elevate  so  to 
speak  out  of  despair,  many  a  soul  that  your  more  tre- 
mendous, rigorous  divines  would  leave  on  the  way  side, 
where  sin,  that  robber,  had  left  them  half  killed.    I  will 

^  Big  Higgins— the  well-known  writer  under  the  signature  of 

Jacob   Omnium. 


74  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

have  a  Samaritan  parson  when  I  fall  among  thieves. 
You,  dear  lady,  may  send  for  an  ascetic  if  you  like; 
what  is  he  to  find  wrong  in  j^ou  ? 

I  have  talked  to  my  mother  about  her  going  to  Paris 
with  the  children,  she  is  very  much  pleased  at  the  notion, 
and  it  won't  be  very  lonely  to  me.  I  shall  be  alone  for 
some  months  at  any  rate,  and  vow  and  swear  I'll  save 
money.  .  .  .  Have  you  read  Dickens?  O!  it  is  charm- 
ing! brave  Dickens!  It  has  some  of  his  very  pretti- 
est touches— those  inimitable  Dickens  touches  which 
make  such  a  great  man  of  him;  and  the  reading 
of  the  book  has  done  another  author  a  great  deal 
of  good.  In  the  first  place  it  pleases  the  other  au- 
thor to  see  that  Dickens,  who  has  long  left  off  allud- 
ing to  the  A.'s  works,  has  been  copying  the  O.  A.,  and 
greatly  simplifying  his  style,  and  overcoming  the  use 
of  fine  words.  By  this  the  public  will  be  the  gainer  and 
David  Copperfield  will  be  improved  by  taking  a  lesson 
from  Vanity  Fair.  Secondly  it  has  put  me  upon  my 
metal;  for  ah!  Madame,  all  the  metal  was  out  of  me  and 
I  have  been  dreadfully  and  curiously  cast  down  this 
month  past.  I  say,  secondly,  it  has  put  me  on  my  metal 
and  made  me  feel  I  must  do  something;  that  I  have 
fame  and  name  and  family  to  support.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  come  away  from  a  dismal  sight;  Gore 
House  full  of  snobs  looking  at  the  furniture.  Foul 
Jews;  odious  bombazine  women,  who  drove  up  in  mys- 
terious flys  which  they  had  hired,  the  wretches,  to  be 
fined,  so  as  to  come  in  state  to  a  fashionable  lounge; 
brutes  keeping  their  hats  on  in  the  kind  old  drawing 
room, — I  longed  to  knock  some  of  them  off,  and  say 
*'  Sir,  be  civil  in  a  lady's  room."  .  .  .  There  was  one  of 
the  servants  there,  not  a  powdered  one,  but  a  butler,  a 
whatdyoucallit.     My  heart  melted  towards  him  and  I 


o 

n 

pi 

O 

a 

o 

> 

I—* 

o 


'^^^ 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  75 

gave  him  a  pound,  Ah!  it  was  a  strange,  sad  picture  of 
Vanity  Fair.  My  mind  is  all  boiling  up  with  it ;  indeed, 
it  is  in  a  queer  state.  ...  I  give  my  best  remembrances 
to  all  at  Clevedon  Court. 


[30th  June  1849.] 

My  dear  lady: 

I  have  2  opera  boxes  for  tonight— a  pit  box — for  the 
Huguenots  at  Covent  Garden — where  there  is  no  ballet, 
and  where  you  might  sit  and  see  this  grand  opera  in 
great  ease  and  quiet.  Will  you  please  to  say  if  you  will 
have  it  and  I  will  send  or  bring  it. 

Or  if  Miss  Hallam  dines  with  you,  may  I  come  after- 
wards to  tea?  Say  yes  or  no;  I  sha'n't  be  offended,  only 
best  pleased  of  course  with  yes.  I  am  engaged  on  Mon- 
day Tuesday  and  Wednesday  nights,  so  if  you  go  away 
on  Thursday  I  shall  have  no  chance  of  seeing  you  again 
for  ever  so  long. 

I  was  to  breakfast  with  Mr.  Rogers  this  morning  but 
he  played  me  false. 

Good  bye 

W.  M.  T. 

Fragment. 

21  July  1849. 

ITo  Mr.  Broohfield.] 

Adelaide  Procter  has  sent  me  the  most  elegant  velvet 
purse,  embroidered  with  my  initials,  and  forget-me-nots 
on  the  other  side.  I  received  this  peace-oiFering  with  a 
gentle  heart;  one  must  not  lose  old  friends  at  our  time 
of  life,  and  if  one  has  offended  them  one  must  try  and 
try  until  they  are  brought  back.  .  .  . 


76  LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY 

Mrs.  Powell,  the  lady  I  asked  you  to  stir  about,  has 
got  the  place  of  matron  of  the  Governesses,  a  house  and 
perquisites,  and  100  a  year,  an  immense  thing  for  a 
woman  with  nothing. 

On  the  30th  June,  the  day  you  went,  Rogers  threw 
me  over  for  breakfast,  and  to-day  comes  the  most  la- 
mentable letter  of  excuse.  Yesterday,  the  day  madame 
went  away,  the  Strutts  asked  me  to  Greenwich,  and  when 
I  got  there,  no  dinner.  Another  most  pathetic  letter  of 
excuse.  These  must  be  answered  in  a  witty  manner,  so 
must  Miss  Procter,  for  the  purse ;  so  must  Mrs.  Alfred 
Montgomery,  who  offers  a  dinner  on  Monday;  so  must 
two  more,  and  I  must  write  that  demnition  Mr.  Browne 
before  evensong. 

From  the  Punch  office,  where  I'm  come  for  to  go  to 
dress,  to  dine  with  the  Lord  mayor;  but  I  have  nothing 
to  say  but  that  I  am  yours,  my  dear  old  friend,  affection- 
ately, 

W.  M.  T. 
Fragment. 

[1849] 

I  was  to  go  to  Mrs.  Montgomery's  at  this  hour  of 
10.30,  but  it  must  be  the  contrary,  that  is,  Mrs.  Procter's. 
I  wrote  Adelaide  her  letter  for  the  purse,  and  instead 
of  thanking  her  much,  only  discoursed  about  old  age, 
disappointment,  death,  and  melancholy. 

The  old  people  are  charming  at  home,  with  their  kind- 
ness. They  are  going  away  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
somewhere,  they  don't  say  where,  with  the  children. 
The  dear  old  step-father  moves  me  rather  the  most,  he 
is  so  gentle  and  good  humoured.  Last  night  Harry 
came  to  dinner,  and  being  Sunday  there  was  none,  and 


LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY  77 

none  to  be  had,  and  we  went  to  the  tavern  hard-bye, 
where  he  didn't  eat  a  bit.    I  did.     .     .     . 

At  Procter's  was  not  furiously  amusing — the  eternal 
G.  bores  one.  Her  parents  were  of  course  there,  the 
papa  with  a  suspicious  looking  little  order  in  his  button 
hole,  and  a  chevalier  d'industrie  air,  which  I  can't  get 

over.    E.  didn't  sing,  but  on  the  other  hand  Mrs.  

did.  She  was  passionate,  she  was  enthusiastic,  she  was 
sublime,  she  was  tender.  There  was  one  note  that  she 
kept  so  long,  that  I  protest  I  had  time  to  think  about  my 
aiFairs,  to  have  a  little  nap,  and  to  awake  much  re- 
freshed, while  it  was  going  on  still.  At  another  time, 
overcome  by  almost  unutterable  tenderness,  she  piped  so 
low,  that  it's  a  wonder  one  could  hear  at  all.  In  a  word, 
she  was  miroholante,  the  most  artless,  affected,  good- 
natured,  absurd,  clever  creature  possible.  When  she 
had  crushed  G.  who  stood  by  the  piano  hating  her,  and 
paying  her  the  most  profound  compliments — she  tripped 
off  on  my  arm  to  the  cab  in  waiting.  I  like  that  absurd 
kind  creature. 

Drums  are  beating  in  various  quarters  for  parties  yet 
to  come  off,  but  I  am  refusing  any  more,  being  quite 
done  up.  I  am  thinking  of  sending  the  old  and  young 
folks  to  Clevedon,  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Robbins  and  Mrs. 
Parr  will  be  kind  to  them,  won't  they? 


[During  an  illness,  August  184*9] 

No.  I. 

63  East  Street,  Brighton. 
Yesterday  I  had  the  courage  to  fly  to  Brighton,  I 
have  got  a  most  beautiful  lodging,  and  had  a  delightful 


78  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

sleep.    I  write  a  line  at  seven  o'clock  of  the  morning  to 
tell  you  these  good  news.    G  b  y.— 

No.  2. 

63  East  Street  Brighton. 

This  morning's,  you  know,  wasn't  a  letter,  only  to  tell 
you  that  I  was  pretty  well  after  my  travels;  and  after 
the  letter  was  gone,  thinks  I,  the  handwriting  is  so  bad 
and  shaky,  she  will  think  I  am  worse,  and  only  write 
fibs  to  try  and  soothe  her.  But  the  cause  of  the  bad  writ- 
ing was  a  bad  pen,  and  impossible  ink.  See  how  differ- 
ent this  is,  though  I  have  not  much  to  say  now,  only  that 
I  have  been  sitting  on  the  chain  pier  in  a  bath  chair  for 
two  hours,  and  feel  greatly  invigorated  and  pleasantly 
tired  by  the  wholesome  sea  breezes.  Shall  I  be  asleep 
in  two  minutes  I  wonder?  I  think  I  will  try,  I  think 
snoring  is  better  than  writing.  Come,  let  us  try  a  little 
doze;  a  comfortable  little  doze  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Since  then,  a  somewhat  fatiguing  visit  from  the  Miss 
Smiths,  who  are  all  kindness,  and  look  very  pretty  in 
their  mourning.^  I  found  acquaintances  on  the  pier  too, 
and  my  chair  anchored  alongside  of  that  of  a  very  inter- 
esting nice  little  woman,  Mrs.  Whitmore,  so  that  there 
was  more  talkee-talkee.  Well,  I  won't  go  on  writing 
any  more  about  my  ailments,  and  dozes  and  fatigues ;  but 
sick  folks  are  abominably  selfish ;  sick  men  that  is,  and  so 

God  bless  my  dear  lady. 

W.  M.  T. 

Thursday. 

I  cannot  write  you  long,  dear  lady ;  I  have  two  notes 
to  my  mother  daily,  and  a  long  one  to  Elliotson,  &c. ;  but 

'  Horace  Smith  died  12th  July,  1849. 


V^  *^s>.  ^^•^-^' 


'^^"'*'i;;/r-*»'t^''^ 


^^^,.^^^^/^ 
^<^  v-"'-"-^^  "^^ 


>" 


"^^ 


/^ 


cS 

■a 

en 

01 

S 

•a 


55 
O 
H 
O 
2 

S5 
Id 


S 

s 

o 

>> 

g 

o 

H 
>> 

a 

o 
2 


'U  c  c  ^  ^ 


o  S  8  £H 


rt  s  ^-      —  ►^" 


'^3^^ 


a 


t>.  *-  it  ^ 

^  i)  1-  CJ  g 

lyW  C  S  tit 

_  aj   yj   O^ 
>   O   —   ^-1 

.«^  o  5 

0)^  i_  m  ™ 

^  ■"  IT  >-  c3 

^^  C  tn  J  t 

«—        O"^ 

V—     .  , 

m  p  u  u  f^ 

ii 

+j 

01  >> 
">  !r> 


a  c«* 


rt-w  03  _  i- 


■-T,  « 

-a  g 


c  o 

I.  4) 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  79 

I  am  getting  on  doucemcnt,  like  the  change  of  air  ex- 
ceedingly, the  salt  water  baths,  and  the  bath-chair  jour- 
neys to  the  pier  where  it  is  almost  as  fresh  as  being  at 
sea.  But  do  you  go  on  writing,  please,  and  as  often  as 
you  can;  for  it  does  me  good  to  get  kind  letters.  God 
bless  you  and  good-night,  is  all  I  can  say  now,  with  my 

love  to  his  Reverence  from 

W.  M.  T. 


[Paris,  Feb.  1849] 

My  dear  Lady: 

I  have  been  to  see  a  great  character  to-day  and  an- 
other still  greater  yesterday.  To-day  was  Jules  Janin, 
whose  books  you  never  read,  nor  do  I  suppose  you  could 
very  well.     He  is  the  critic  of  the  Journal  des  Debats 

%■' 

and  has  made  his  weekly  feuilleton  famous  throughout 
Europe — He  does  not  know  a  word  of  English,  but  he 
translated  Sterne  and  I  think  Clarissa  Harlowe.  One 
week,  having  no  theatres  to  describe  in  his  feuilleton, 
or  no  other  subject  handy,  he  described  his  own  marriage, 
which  took  place  in  fact  that  week,  and  absolutely  made 
a  present  of  his  sensations  to  all  the  European  public. 
He  has  the  most  wonderful  verve,  humour,  oddity,  hon- 
esty, bonhomie.  He  was  ill  with  the  gout,  or  recovering 
perhaps;  but  bounced  about  the  room,  gesticulating, 
joking,  gasconading,  quoting  Latin,  pulling  out  his 
books  which  are  very  handsome,  and  tossing  about  his 
curling  brown  hair;— a  magnificent  jolly  intelligent  face 
such  as  would  suit  Pan  I  should  think,  a  flood  of  hu- 
morous, rich,  jovial  talk.  And  now  I  have  described 
this,  how  are  you  to  have  the  least  idea  of  him.— I  dare- 
say it  is  not  a  bit  Hke  him.    He  recommended  me  to  read 


80  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

Diderot;  which  I  have  been  reading  in  at  his  recom- 
mendation; and  that  is  a  remarkable  sentimental  cynic, 
too;  in  his  way  of  thinking  and  sudden  humours  not 
unhke— not  unlike  Mr.  Bowes  of  the  Chatteris  Theatre. 
I  can  fancy  Harry  Pendennis  and  him  seated  on  the 
bridge  and  talking  of  their  mutual  mishaps;— no  Arthur 
Pendennis  the  boy's  name  is !  I  shall  be  forgetting  my 
own  next.  But  mind  you,  my  similes  don't  go  any  fur- 
ther: and  I  hope  you  don't  go  for  to  fancy  that  you 
know  anj^body  like  IMiss  Fotheringay — you  don't  sup- 
pose that  I  think  that  you  have  no  heart,  do  you?  But 
there's  many  a  woman  who  has  none,  and  about  whom 
men  go  crazy; — such  was  the  other  character  I  saw  yes- 
terday. We  had  a  long  talk  in  which  she  showed  me 
her  interior,  and  I  inspected  it  and  left  it  in  a  state  of 
wonderment  which  I  can't  describe.  .  .  . 

She  is  kind,  frank,  open-handed,  not  very  refined, 
with  a  warm  outpouring  of  language ;  and  thinks  herself 
the  most  feeling  creature  in  the  world.  The  way  in 
which  she  fascinates  some  people  is  quite  extraordinary. 
She  affected  me  by  telling  me  of  an  old  friend  of  ours 
in  the  country— Dr.  Portman's  daughter  indeed,  who 
was  a  parson  in  our  parts — who  died  of  consumption  the 
other  day  after  leading  the  purest  and  saintliest  life,  and 
who  after  she  had  received  the  sacrament  read  over  her 
friend's  letter  and  actually  died  with  it  on  the  bed.  Her 
husband  adores  her ;  he  is  an  old  cavalrv  Colonel  of  sixty, 
and  the  poor  fellow  away  now  in  India,  and  yearning 
after  her  writes  her  yards  and  yards  of  the  most  tender, 
submissive,  frantic  letters;  five  or  six  other  men  are 
crazy  about  her.  She  trotted  them  all  out,  one  after 
another  before  me  last  night ;  not  humourously,  I  mean, 
nor  making  fun  of  them;  but  complacently,  describing 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  81 

their  adoration  for  her  and  acquiescing  in  their  opinion 
of  herself.  Friends,  lover,  husband,  she  coaxes  them  all ; 
and  no  more  cares  for  them  than  worthy  INIiss  Fother- 
ingay  did.  — Oh!  Becky  is  a  trifle  to  her;  and  I  am  sure 
I  might  draw  her  picture  and  she  would  never  know  in 
the  least  that  it  was  herself.  I  suppose  I  did  not  fall 
in  love  with  her  myself  because  we  were  brought  up  to- 
gether ;  she  was  a  very  simple  generous  creature  then. 

Tuesday.  Friend  came  in  as  I  was  writing  last  night, 
perhaps  in  time  to  stop  my  chattering;  but  I  am  encore 
tout  emerveille  de  ma  cousine.  By  all  the  Gods!  I  never 
had  the  opportunity  of  inspecting  such  a  naturalness 
and  coquetry;  not  that  I  suppose  that  there  are  not  many 
such  women ;  but  I  have  only  myself  known  one  or  two 
women  intimately,  and  I  daresay  the  novelty  would  wear 
off  if  I  knew  more.  I  had  the  Revue  des  2  mondes  and 
the  Journal  des  Debats  to  dinner ;  and  what  do  you  think 
by  way  of  a  delicate  attention  the  chef  served  us  up? 
Mock-turtle  soup  again,  and  uncommonly  good  it  was 
too.  After  dinner  I  went  to  a  ball  at  the  prefecture  of 
Police;  the  most  splendid  apartments  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life.  Such  lights,  pillars,  marble,  hangings,  carvings, 
and  gildings.  I  am  sure  King  Belshazzar  could  not  have 
been  more  magnificently  lodged.— There  must  have  been 
15  hundred  people,  of  whom  I  did  not  know  one  single 
soul.  I  am  surprised  that  the  people  did  not  faint  in  the 
Saloons,  which  were  like  burning  fiery  furnaces;  but 
there  they  were  dancing  and  tripping  away,  ogling  and 
flirting,  and  I  suppose  not  finding  the  place  a  bit  incon- 
veniently warm.  The  women  were  very  queer  looking 
bodies  for  the  most,  I  thought,  but  the  men  dandies  every 
one,  fierce  and  trim  with  curling  little  mustachios.  I 
felt  dimly  that  I  was  3  inches  taller  than  any  body  else 


82  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

in  the  room  but  I  hoped  that  nobody  took  notice  of  me. 
There  was  a  rush  for  ices  at  a  footman  who  brought 
those  refreshments  which  was  perfectly  terrific— They 
were  scattered  melting  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  as  I 
ran  out  of  it  in  a  panic.  There  was  an  old  British  dow- 
ager with  two  daughters  seated  up  against  a  wall  very 
dowdy  and  sad,  poor  old  lady ;  I  wonder  what  she  wanted 
there  and  whether  that  was  what  she  called  pleasure. 
I  went  to  see  William's  old  friend  and  mine,  Bowes ;  he 
has  forty  thousand  a  year  and  palaces  in  the  country, 
and  here  is  a  manager  of  a  Theatre  of  Varietes,  and  his 
talk  was  about  actors  and  coulisses  all  the  time  of  our 
interview.  I  wish  it  could  be  the  last,  but  he  has  made 
me  promise  to  dine  with  him,  and  go  I  must,  to  be  killed 
by  his  melancholy  gentlemanlikeness.  I  think  that  is 
all  I  did  yesterday.  Dear  lady,  I  am  pained  at  your  hav- 
ing been  unwell;  I  thought  you  must  have  been,  when 
Saturday  came  without  any  letter.  There  wont  be  one 
today  I  bet  twopence.  I  am  going  to  a  lecture  at  the 
Institute;  a  lecture  on  Burns  by  M.  Chasles,  who  is 
professor  of  English  literature.  What  a  course  of  lion- 
izing, isn't  it  ?  But  it  must  stop ;  for  is  not  the  month  the 
shortest  of  months?  I  went  to  see  my  old  haunts  when 
I  came  to  Paris  13  years  ago,  and  made  believe  to  be  a 
painter,— just  after  I  was  ruined  and  before  I  fell  in 
love  and  took  to  marriage  and  writing.  It  was  a  very 
jolly  time,  I  was  as  poor  as  Job  and  sketched  away  most 
abominably,  but  pretty  contented;  and  we  used  to  meet 
in  each  others  little  rooms  and  talk  about  art  and  some 
pipes  and  drink  bad  brandy  and  water.  —  That  awful 
habit  still  remains,  but  where  is  art,  that  dear  mistress 
whom  I  loved,  though  in  a  very  indolent  capricious  man- 
ner, but  with  a  real  sincerity?— I  see  her  far,  very  far 


LETTERS  OF    THACKERAY  83 

off.  I  jilted  her,  I  know  it  very  well;  but  you  see  it  was 
Fate  ordained  that  marriage  should  never  take  place; 
and  forced  me  to  take  on  with  another  lady,  two  other 
ladies,  three  other  ladies ;  I  mean  the  muse  and  my  wife 
&c.  &c. 

Well  3^ou  are  very  good  to  listen  to  all  this  egotistic 
prattle,  chere  soeur,  si  douce  et  si  bonne.  I  have  no 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  my  loves,  seeing  that  all  three 
are  quite  lawful.  Did  you  go  to  see  my  people  yester- 
day? Some  day  when  his  reverence  is  away,  will  you 
have  the  children?  and  not,  if  you  please,  be  so  vain  as  to 
fancy  that  you  can't  amuse  them  or  that  they  will  be 
bored  in  your  house.  They  must  and  shall  be  fond  of 
you,  if  you  please.  Alfred's  open  mouth  as  he  looked 
at  the  broken  bottle  and  spilt  wine  must  have  been  a 
grand  picture  of  agony. 

I  couldn't  find  the  lecture  room  at  the  Institute,  so  I 
went  to  the  Louvre  instead,  and  took  a  feast  with  the 
statues  and  pictures.  The  Venus  of  Milo  is  the  grand- 
est figure  of  figures.  The  wave  of  the  lines  of  the 
figure,  whenever  seen,  fills  my  senses  with  pleasure. 
What  is  it  which  so  charms,  satisfies  one,  in  certain  lines? 
O!  the  man  who  achieved  that  statue  was  a  beautiful 
genius.  I  have  been  sitting  thinking  of  it  these  10  min- 
utes in  a  delightful  sensuous  rumination.  The  Colours 
of  the  Titian  pictures  comfort  one's  eyes  similarly ;  and 
after  these  feasts,  which  wouldn't  please  my  lady  very 
much  I  daresay,  being  I  should  think  too  earthly  for 
you,  I  went  and  looked  at  a  picture  I  usedn't  to  care 
much  for  in  old  days,  an  angel  saluting  a  Virgin  and 
child  by  Pietro  Cortona,— a  sweet  smiling  angel  with  a 
lily  in  her  hands,  looking  so  tender  and  gentle  I  wished 
that  instant  to  make  a  copy  of  it,  and  do  it  beautifully, 


84  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

which  I  can't,  and  present  it  to  somebody  on  Lady-day. 

—  There  now,  just  fancy  it  is  done,  and  presented  in  a 

neat  comphment,  and  hung  up  in  your  room — a  pretty 

piece — daint}'-  and  devotional? — I  drove  about  with , 

and  wondered  at  her  more  and  more.  —  She  is  come  to 

"my  dearest  Wilham"  now:  though  she  doesn't  care  a 

fig  for  me.  — She  told  me  astonishing  things,  showed  me 

a  letter  in  which  every  word  was  true  and  which  was  a 

fib  from  beginning  to  end; — A  miracle  of  deception; — 

flattered,  fondled,  coaxed — O!  she  was  worth  coming  to 

Paris  for!  .  .  .  Pray  God  to  keep  us  simple.'    I  have 

never  looked  at  anything  in  my  life  which  has  so  amazed 
me.     Why,  this  is  as  good,  almost,  as  if  I  had  you  to 

talk  to.    Let  us  go  out  and  have  another  walk. 


Fragment 

[Paris,  1849] 

Of  course  in  all  families  the  mother  is  the  one  to  whom 
the  children  cling.  We  don't  talk  to  them,  feel  with 
them,  love  them,  occupy  ourselves  about  them  as  the 
female  does. — We  think  about  our  business  and  pleasure, 
not  theirs.  Why  do  I  trouble  you  with  these  perplexi- 
ties? If  I  mayn't  tell  you  what  I  feel,  what  is  the  use 
of  a  friend  ?  That's  why  I  would  rather  have  a  sad  letter 
from  you,  or  a  short  one  if  you  are  tired  and  unwell,  than 
a  sham-gay  one— and  I  don't  subscribe  at  all  to  the  doc- 
trine of  "  striving  to  be  cheerful ".  A  quoi  hon,  con- 
vulsive grins  and  humbugging  good-humour?  Let  us 
have  a  reasonable  cheerfulness,  and  melancholy  too,  if 
there  is  occasion  for  it— and  no  more  hypocrisy  in  life 
than  need  be. 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  85 

We  had  a  pleasant  enough  visit  to  Versailles,  and  then 
I  went  to  see  old  Hallida}",  and  then  to  see  old  Bess,  and 
to  sit  with  the  sick  Tom  Eraser.  I  spend  my  days  so,  and 
upon  my  word  ought  to  get  some  reward  for  being  so 
virtuous. 

On  Sunday  I  took  a  carriage  and  went  to  S.  in  the 
country.  The  jolly  old  nurse  who  has  been  in  the  Rick- 
etts  family  120  years  or  more  or  less,  talked  about  IMiss 
Rosa,  late  ]M—  Fanshawe,  and  remembers  her  the  flower 
of  that  branch  of  the  f amih%  and  exceedingly  pretty  and 
with  a  most  lovely  complexion. — And  then  I  told  them 
what  a  lovely  jewel  the  present  JNIiss  Rosa  was;  and  how 
yerj  fond  I  was  of  her  mamma; — and  so  we  had  a  toler- 
ably pleasant  afternoon; — and  I  came  back  and  sat 
again  with  ]Mr.  Thomas  Eraser.  Yesterday  there  w^as  a 
pretty  little  English  dance  next  door  at  jNIrs.  Erring- 
ton's,  and  an  English  country  dance  being  proposed, 
one  of  the  young  bucks  good-naturedly  took  a  fiddle  and 
]Dlayed  very  well  too,  and  I  had  for  a  partner  IMadame 
Gudin,  the  painter's  wife,  I  think  I  mentioned  her  to 
you,  didn't  I? 

She  is  a  daughter  of  Lord  James  Hay — a  very  fair 
complexion  and  jolly  face,  and  so  with  the  greatest  fear 
and  trepidation  (for  I  never  could  understand  a  figure) 
I  asked  her— and  she  refused  because  she  tells  me  that 
she  is  too  ill,  and  I  am  sure  I  was  very  glad  to  be  out  of 
the  business. 

I  went  to  see  a  play  last  night,  and  the  new  comedian 
Mademoiselle  Brohan  of  Avhom  all  the  world  is  talking, 
a  beautiful  j^oung  woman  of  17  looking  25  and— I 
thought— vulgar,  intensely  affected,  and  with  a  kind  of 
stupid  intelligence  that  passes  for  real  wit  with  the  pit- 
tites, who  applauded  with  immense  enthusiasm  all  her 


86  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

smiles  and  shrugs  and  gestures  and  ogles.  But  they 
wouldn't  have  admired  her  if  she  hadn't  been  so  beauti- 
ful, if  her  eyes  weren't  bright  and  her  charms  undeni- 
able.—  I  was  asked  to  beg  some  of  the  young  English 
Seigneurs  here  to  go  to  an  Actress  ball,  where  there  was 
to  be  a  great  deal  of  Parisian  beauty,  which  a  cosmophi- 
lite  ought  to  see  perhaps  as  well  as  any  other  phase  of 
society.— But  I  refused  Madame  Osy's  ball— my  grey 
head  has  no  call  to  show  amongst  these  young  ones,  and, 
as  in  the  next  novel  we  are  to  have  none  but  good  char- 
acters— what  is  the  use  of  examining  folks  who  are  quite 
otherwise.  Meanwhile,  and  for  10  days  more,  I  must 
do  my  duty  and  go  out  feeling  deucedly  lonely  in  the 
midst  of  the  racketting  and  jigging.  I  am  engaged  to 
dinner  for  the  next  3  days,  and  on  Friday  when  I  had 
hoped  to  be  at  home — my  mother  has  a  tea-party,  and 
asked  trembling  (for  she  is  awfully  afraid  of  me) 
whether  I  would  come— Of  course  I'll  go.— 

W.  M.  T. 


[Paris,  1849] 

They  all  got  a  great  shock  they  told  me,  by  reading  in 
the  Galignani,  that  W.  M.  Thackeray  was  dead,  and 
that  it  was  I.  Indeed  two  W.  Thackeray's  have  died 
within  the  last  month.  Eh  hien?  There's  a  glum  sort 
of  humour  in  all  this  I  think,  and  I  grin  like  a  skull. — 
As  I  sent  you  a  letter  to  my  Mamma,  here  is  a  sermon 
to  Annie.  You  will  please  put  it  in  the  post  for  me?  I 
think  about  my  dear  honest  old  Fatty,  with  the  greatest 
regard  and  confidence.  I  hope,  please  God,  she  will  be 
kept  to  be  a  companion  and  friend  to  me.  You  see  I 
work  in  the  Herschell. 


4^  it  ,    Urf  ^aJ   ita  ^i^  ^Vu/Ow  <nJ  c(^  ftt,.  /l\4n*V  ,  OmJL  juU  <^  ^  «*' 
Ltx,  d  JifXiht .     llt^  ^  l«W  i  \uLUuJi  UniU.  4uh  OuiJ  iL  anoii4*4 » ll^' 


i(u\    (cUiU     tW"    u}^  LkKL4  ^  dtfcAUil  rf    jiix-^u^Ut   w  luu«  ?  lUi/j  CirCiH  VuV^U^ 
<24**^   J(^  fe**H  '^^    ^^^ 

U>tu4>ci    •«l^CcuiCw4^  .       bwt  4JVU   ^C'*^   S«<ul  <UiV\  ^  «^  Urrvl^  4 


-^i^' 


iu^tc    Oa^X   iUm^  m   «.   CtTiiJnni  .  1   [^^^^^  j^  {k/i«   tucc  ^nttw   IH*??  hcuCc^{ 

^   VLuc  t   (kvI'  «k**^    vUvi*    OUM^    il^  "fc^  <:^'5  j  W  1tu  tiUtt'  i^  Ut  Um< 

X  .  UttM  PW*j4*'  '^***^  ^  ^^m^aXxA   \m.  ^UA  o/    (iu  ^U^  c«^  iu<A 


JK^ot  ,  A*«t  K«u  Ltt  L  Jw(u<f  YtnAJi .  Iv^^  j,,^  ^  (^ 

^^  d  tli#!r<,  Tiu^if^^u  Wcu    U^L    I    (U/ic^^    link  Itsx^A   t  i;|u*4r  «**| 
UW  Aii^u^  ''ji/i/t^  *tH*  ^i  ,  <u4    [vt«f<t«l  ^at<Ml   C^^    XfikiJ^  . 
^  lUa  J  I  lUtiO:  lu  ti  -    i)H^  Y*-  "2^  li    ^ .  WtiuiiJ,  Uri  ?  tW 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  87 

Give  my  love  to  Harry  when  you  write  to  him,  and 
to  Mrs.  Fanshawe  and  to  Missy.  I  haven't  time  to  trans- 
act letters  to  them  to-day,  or  I  should  use  our  traveller 
who  carries  this  here,  and  glory  in  saving  2f.  by  that 
stratagem.  And  I'd  have  you  know,  Madam,  that  I 
wish  I  was  going  to  dine  at  Portman  Street  as  I  did  this 
day  week ;  but  that  as  I  can't,  why,  I  will  be  a  man,  and 
do  my  duty.    Bon  soir  William,  hon  soir  Madame. 


A  Fragment 
[1849] 

What  you  say  about  Mrs. being  doomed  does  not 

affect  me  verj^  much,  I  am  afraid.  I  don't  see  that  living 
is  such  a  benefit,  and  could  find  it  in  my  heart  pretty 
readily  to  have  an  end  of  it,— After  wasting  a  deal  of 
opportunities  and  time  and  desires  in  vanitarianism. 
What  is  it  makes  one  so  blase  and  tired  I  wonder  at  38  ? 
Is  it  pain  or  pleasure?  Present  solitude  or  too  much 
company  before?  both  very  likely.  You  see  I  am  here 
as  yesterday,  gloomy  again,  and  thrumming  on  the  old 
egotistical  string.  — But  that  I  think  you  would  be 
pleased  to  have  a  letter  from  me  dear  lady,  I'd  burn 
these  2  sheets,  or  give  my  blue  devils  some  other  outlet 
than  into  your  kind  heart. 

Here  are  some  verses  which  I  have  been  knocking 
about,  and  are  of  the  same  gloomy  tendency.  You  must 
know  that  I  was  making  a  drawing  which  was  something 
like  you  at  first,  but  ended  in  a  face  that  is  not  in  the 
least  like  yours;  whereupon  the  Poet  ever  on  the  watch 
for  incidents  began  A  Failure. 


88  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

A  Failure 

Beneath  this  frank  and  smihng  face, 
You  who  would  look  with  curious  eye 
The  draughtsman's  inward  mind  to  spy, 

Some  other  lineaments  may  trace. 
Ah!  many  a  time  I  try  and  try 

Lady,  to  represent  their  grace. 

Dear  face !    The  smile  with  which  'tis  lit  - 
The  mantling  hlush,  the  gentle  eyes. 
Each  individual  feature  lies 

Within  m}^  heart  so  faithful  writ. 
Why  fails  my  pencil  when  it  tries  ? 

*.'d*.  *3fi^  jSg,  jto 

r^  rt%  VI^  r^ 

(Here  lines  may  be  inserted  Ad  lib.  com- 
plimentary to  the  person) 

I  look  upon  the  altered  line 

And  think  it  ever  is  my  lot; 

A  something  always  comes  to  blot 
And  mar  my  impossible  design — 
A  mocking  Fate  that  bids  me  pine, 

And  struggle  and  achieve  it  not. 

Poor  baulked  endeavours  incomplete! 
Poor  feeble  sketch  the  world  to  show, 
While  the  marred  truth  lurks  lost  below! 

What's  life  but  this?  a  cancelled  sheet, 

A  laugh  disguising  a  defeat! 

Let's  tear  and  laugh  and  own  it  so. 

Exit  with  a  laugh  of  demoniac  scorn.  But 
I  send  the  very  original  drawing,  to 
these  very  original  verses — 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  89 


3  Sept.  1849. 

From  Paris, 

Monday. 

The  man  who  was  to  carry  my  letter  yesterday,  fled 
without  giving  me  notice,  so  INIadame  loses  the  sermon 
to  Annie,  the  pretty  picture,  &c.  I  haven't  the  courage 
to  pay  the  postage  for  so  much  rubbish.  Isn't  it  curious 
that  a  gentleman  of  such  expensive  habits  should  have 
this  meanness  about  paper  and  postage?  The  best  is 
that  I  have  spent  three  francs  in  cab-hire,  hunting  for 
the  man  who  was  to  carry  my  two-franc  letter.  The 
follies  of  men  are  ceaseless,  even  of  comic  authors,  who 
make  it  their  business  to  laugh  at  the  follies  of  all  the 
rest  of  the  world. 

What  do  you  think  I  did  yesterday  night?  If  j^ou 
please,  ma'am,  I  went  to  the  play;  and  I  suppose  be- 
cause it  was  Sunda}^  was  especially  diverted,  and 
laughed  so  as  to  make  myself  an  object  in  the  stalls; 
but  it  was  at.  pure  farcicality,  not  at  wit.  The  piece 
was  about  a  pleasure  excursion  to  London;  and  the 
blunders  and  bufFooner}',  mingled,  made  the  laughter. 
''Eh  oui,  nous  irons  a  Greenwich,  manger  un  excellent 
sandwich"  was  a  part  of  one  of  the  songs. 

My  poor  Aunt  is  still  in  life,  but  that  is  all;  she  has 
quite  lost  her  senses.  I  talked  for  some  time  with  her 
old  husband,  who  has  been  the  most  affectionate  hus- 
band to  her,  and  who  is  looking  on,  he  being  72  j^ears  old 
himself,  with  a  calm  resolution  and  awaiting  the  moment 
which  is  to  take  away  his  life's  companion.  .  .  .  As  for 
Pendennis,  I  began  upon  No.  7  to-day  and  found  a 
.  picture  which  was  perfectly  new  and  a  passage  which  I 
had  as  utterly  forgotten  as  if  I  had  never  read  or  written 


90  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

it.  This  shortness  of  memory  frightens  me,  and  makes 
me  have  gloomy  anticipations.  Will  poor  Annie  have 
to  nurse  an  old  imbecile  of  a  father  some  day,  who  will 
ramble  incoherently  about  old  days  and  people  whom 
he  used  to  love  ?  What  a  shame  it  is  to  talk  such  gloomy 
stuff  to  my  dear  lady ;  well,  you  are  accustomed  to  hear 
my  chatter,  gloomy  or  otherwise,  as  my  thoughts  go  by. 
I  fancy  myself  by  the  dear  old  sofa  almost,  as  I  sit  here 
prating;  and  shut  my  eyes  and  see  you  quite  clear.  I 
am  glad  you  have  been  doing  works  of  art  with  your 
needle.  .  .  . 

W.  H.  Ainsworth,  Esquire,  is  here;  we  dined  next 
each  other  at  the  3  Freres  yesterday  and  rather  frater- 
nized. He  showed  a  friendly  disposition  I  thought,  and 
a  desire  to  forgive  me  my  success;  but  beyond  a  good- 
humoured  acquiescence  in  his  good  will,  I  don't  care.  I 
suppose  one  doesn't  care  for  people,  only  for  a  very,  very 
few.  A  man  came  in  just  now  who  told  me  he  had  heard 
how  I  was  dead.  I  began  to  laugh,  and  my  laugh  meant, 
"Well  old  fellow,  you  don't  care,  do  yous^"  And  why 
should  he?  How  often  I  must  have  said  and  said  these 
things  over  to  you.  Out  Madame,  je  me  repete.  Je  me 
faisvieux;  j'ouhlie;  je  radotej  je  ne  parle  que  de  moi. 
Je  vous  fais  suhir  mon  egoisme,  ma  melancholie. — Le 
jour  viendra-t-il  ou  elle  vous  genera?  Eh,  mon  dieu; — 
ne  soyons  pas  trop  curieux;  demahi  viendra;  aujourd' 
hui  j'  ouhlierai — pourquoi  ne  vous  vois-je  pas  aujour-d' 
hui?  I  think  you  have  enough  of  this  for  to-day,  so 
good-night.  Good  bye,  Mr.  Williams.  I  fancy  the  old 
street-sweeper  at  the  corner  is  holding  the  cob,  I  take  my 
hat  and  stick,  I  say  good  bye  again,  the  door  bangs 
finally.  Here's  a  shilling  for  you,  old  street-sweeper; 
the  cob  trots  solitary  into  the  Park.    Je  fais  de  la  litter- 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  91 

ature,  ma  parole  d'honneur! — du  style — du  Sterne  tout 
pur—O  vajiitas  vanitatum!    God  bless  all, 

W.  M.  T. 

[4f/i  Sept.  1849] 

Tuesday,  Paris. 

Perhaps  by  my  intolerable  meanness  and  blundering, 
you  will  not  get  any  letter  from  me  till  to-morrow.  On 
Sunday,  the  man  who  was  to  take  the  letter  failed  me; 
yesterday  I  went  with  it  in  a  cab  to  the  Grande  Poste, 
which  is  a  mile  off,  and  where  j-ou  have  to  go  to  pay. 
The  cab  horse  was  lame,  and  we  arrived  two  minutes  too 
late;  I  put  the  letter  into  the  unpaid-letter  box;  I  dis- 
missed the  poor  old  broken  cab  horse,  behind  which  it  was 
agonizing  to  sit ;  in  fine  it  was  a  failure. 

When  I  got  to  dinner  at  my  aunt's,  I  found  all  was 
over.  jNIrs.  H.  died  on  Sunday  night  in  her  sleep,  quite 
without  pain,  or  any  knowledge  of  the  transition.  I 
went  and  sat  w'ith  her  husband,  an  old  fellow  of  seventy- 
two,  and  found  him  bearing  his  calamity  in  a  very  honest 
manly  way.  What  do  you  think  the  old  gentleman  was 
doing?  Well,  he  was  drinking  gin  and  water,  and  I  had 
some  too,  telling  his  valet  to  make  me  some.  Man 
thought  this  was  a  master-stroke  of  diplomacy  and  evi- 
dently thinks  I  have  arrived  to  take  possession  as  heir, 
but  I  know  nothing  about  money  matters  as  yet,  and 
think  that  the  old  gentleman  at  least  will  have  the  enjoy- 
ment of  my  aunt's  property  during  life.  He  told  me 
some  family  secrets,  in  which  persons  of  repute  figure 
not  honourably.  Ah !  they  shock  one  to  think  of.  Pray, 
have  you  ever  committed  any  roguery  in  money  matters? 
Has  William  ?  Have  1  ?  I  am  more  likely  to  do  it  than 
he,  that  honest  man,  not  having  his  resolution  or  self- 


92  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

denial.  But  I've  not  as  yet,  beyond  the  roguery  of  not 
saving  perhaj^s,  which  is  knavish  too.  I  am  very  glad  I 
came  to  see  my  dearest  old  aunt.  She  is  such  a  kind  ten- 
der creature,  laws  bless  us,  how  fond  she  would  be  of 
you.  I  was  going  to  begin  about  William  and  say,  "  do 
you  remember  a  friend  of  mine  who  came  to  dine  at  the 
Thermes,  and  sang  the  song  about  the  Mogul,  and  the 
blue-bottle-fly,"  but  modesty  forbade  and  I  was  dumb. 

Since  this  was  written  in  the  afternoon  I  suppose  if 
there  has  been  one  virtuous  man  in  Paris  it  is  madame's 
most  obajient  servant.  I  went  to  sit  with  Mr.  H.  and 
found  him  taking  what  he  calls  his  tiffin  in  great  com- 
fort (tiffin  is  the  meal  which  I  have  sometimes  had  the 
honour  of  sharing  with  you  at  one  o'clock)  and  this  trans- 
acted,—and  I  didn't  have  any  tiffin,  having  consumed  a 
good  breakfast  two  hours  previously — I  went  up  a  hun- 
dred stairs  at  least,  to  Miss  B.  H.'s  airy  apartment,  and 
found  her  and  her  sister,  and  sat  for  an  hour.  She  asked 
after  you  so  warmly  that  I  was  quite  pleased;  she  said 
she  had  the  highest  respect  for  you,  and  I  was  glad  to 
find  somebody  who  knew  you ;  and  all  I  can  say  is,  if  you 
fancy  I  like  being  here  better  than  in  London,  you  are 
in  a  pleasing  error. 

Then  I  went  to  see  a  friend  of  my  mother's,  then  to 
have  a  very  good  dinner  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  where  I  had 
potage  a  la  pourpart,  think  of  pourpart  soup.  We  had 
it  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  name,  and  it  was  uncom- 
monly good.  Then  back  to  old  H.  again,  to  bawl  into 
his  ears  for  an  hour  and  a  half ;  then  to  drink  tea  with  my 
aunt— why,  life  has  been  a  series  of  sacrifices  today,  and 
I  must  be  written  up  in  the  book  of  good  works.  For  I 
sliould  liave  liked  to  go  to  the  play,  and  follow  my  own 
devices  best,  but  for  that  stern  sentiment  of  duty,  which 


LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY  93 

fitfully  comes  over  the  most  abandoned  of  men,  at  times. 
All  the  time  I  was  with  ^Ir.  H.  in  the  morning,  what  do 
you  think  they  were  doing  in  the  next  room?  It  was 
like  a  novel.  They  were  rapping  at  a  coffin  in  the  bed- 
room, but  he  was  too  deaf  to  hear,  and  seems  too  old  to 
care  very  much.  Ah !  dear  lady,  I  hope  j^ou  are  sleeping 
happily  at  this  hour,  and  you,  and  Mr.  Williams,  and 
another  party  who  is  nameless,  shall  have  all  the  benefits 
of  an  old  sinner's  prayers. 

I  suppose  I  was  too  virtuous  on  Tuesday,  for  yester- 
day I  got  back  to  my  old  selfish  ways  again,  and  did  what 
I  liked  from  morning  till  night.  This  self  indulgence 
though  entire  was  not  criminal,  at  first  at  least,  but  I 
shall  come  to  the  painful  part  of  my  memoirs  presently. 
All  the  forenoon  I  read  with  intense  delight,  a  novel 
called  Le  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne,  a  continuation  of  the 
famous  Moiisquetaires  and  just  as  interesting,  keeping 
one  panting  from  volume  to  volume,  and  longing  for 
more.  This  done,  and  after  a  walk  and  some  visits,  read 
more  novels,  David  Copper/ield  to  wit,  in  which  there  is 
a  charming  bit  of  insanity,  and  which  I  begin  to  believe 
is  the  very  best  thing  the  author  has  yet  done.  Then  to 
the  Varietes  Theatre,  to  see  the  play  Chameleon,  after 
which  all  Paris  is  running,  a  general  satire  upon  the  last 
60  years.  Everything  is  satirised,  Louis  XVI,  the  Con- 
vention, the  Empire,  the  Restoration  etc.,  the  barricades, 
at  which  these  people  were  murdering  each  other  only 
j^esterday — it's  awful,  immodest,  surpasses  my  cynicism 
altogether.  At  the  end  of  the  piece  they  pretend  to 
bring  in  the  author  and  a  little  child  who  can  just  speak, 
comes  in  and  sings  a  satiric  song,  in  a  feeble,  tender,  in- 
fantine pipe,  which  seemed  to  me  as  impious  as  the  whole 
of  the  rest  of  the  piece.    They  don't  care  for  anything, 


94  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

not  religion,  not  bravery,  not  liberty,  not  great  men,  not 
modesty.  Ah !  madame,  what  a  great  moralist  somebody 
is,  and  what  moiglity  foine  principles  entoirely  he  has! 

But  now,  with  a  blush  upon  my  damask  cheek,  I  come 
to  the  adventures  of  the  day.  You  must  know  I  went  to 
the  play  with  an  old  comrade,  Roger  de  Beauvoir,  an 
ex-dandy  and  man  of  letters,  who  talked  incessantly  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  dinner  time,  as  I  remember,  though  I 
can't  for  the  life  of  me  recall  what  he  said.  Well  we 
went  together  to  the  play,  and  he  took  me  where  William 
would  long  to  go,  to  the  green-room.  I  have  never  been 
in  a  French  green-room  before,  and  was  not  much  ex- 
cited, but  when  he  proposed  to  take  me  up  to  the  loge  of 
a  beautiful  actress  with  sparkling  eyes  and  the  prettiest 
little  retrousse  nosey-posey  in  the  world,  I  said  to  the 
regisseur  of  the  theatre  "  lead  on  "  !  and  we  went  through 
passages  and  up  stairs  to  the  loge,  which  is  not  a  box,  but 
O!  gracious  goodness,  a  dressing  room! — 

She  had  just  taken  off  her  rouge,  her  complexion  was 
only  a  thousand  times  more  brilliant,  perhaps,  the  peig- 
noir of  black  satin  which  partially  enveloped  her  perfect 
form,  only  served  to  heighten  &c,  which  it  could  but 
partially  do  &c.  Her  lips  are  really  as  red  as  &c,  and  not 
covered  with  paint  at  all.  Her  voice  is  delicious,  her 
eyes,  O!  they  flashed  &c  upon  me,  and  I  felt  my  &c, 
beating  so  that  I  could  hardly  speak.  I  pitched  in,  if 
you  will  permit  me  the  phrase,  two  or  three  compliments 
however,  very  large  and  heavy,  of  the  good  old  English 
sort,  and  O!  mon  dieu  she  has  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her. 
Shall  I  go,  or  shan't  I?  Shall  I  go  this  very  day  at  4 
o'clock,  or  shall  I  not?  Well,  I  won't  tell  you,  I  will  put 
up  my  letter  before  4,  and  keep  this  piece  of  intelligence 
for  the  next  packet. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  95 

The  funeral  takes  jilace  to-morrow,  and  as  I  don't 
seem  to  do  much  work  here,  I  shall  be  soon  probably  on 
the  wing,  but  perhaps  I  will  take  a  week's  touring 
somewhere  about  France,  Tours  and  Nantes  perhaps  or 
elsewhere,  or  anj^where,  I  don't  know,  but  I  hope  before 
I  go  to  hear  once  more  from  you.  I  am  happy  indeed 
to  hear  how  well  you  are.  What  a  shame  it  was  to 
assault  my  dear  lady  with  my  blue  devils.  Who  could 
help  looking  to  the  day  of  failing  powers,  but  if  I  last 
a  few  years,  no  doubt  I  can  get  a  shelter  somewhere 
against  that  certain  adversity,  and  so  I  ought  not  to 
show  you  my  glum  face  or  my  dismal  feelings.  That's 
the  worst  of  habit  and  confidence.  You  are  so  kind  to 
me  that  I  like  to  tell  you  all,  and  to  think  that  in  good 
or  ill  fortune  I  have  your  sympathy.  Here's  an  oppor- 
tunity for  sentiment,  here's  just  a  little  bit  of  the  page 
left  to  say  something  neat  and  pretty.  Je  les  meprise 
les  jolis  mots,  vous  en  ai-je  jamais  fait  de  ma  vie?  Je 
les  laisse  a  Monsieur  Bulla?'  et  ses  pareils — j'en  ferai 
pour  Mademoiselle  Page,  pour  la  ravissante  la  semillanfe 
la  fretillante  A  dele  [c'est  ainsi  quelle  se  nomme)  mais 
pour  vous?  Allons—partons—il  est  quatre.  heures — 
fermons  la  lettre—disons  adieu,  Vamie  et  moi—vous 
m'ecrirez  avant  mon  depart  nest  ce  pas?  Allez  hien, 
dormez  hien,  marchez  hien,  s'il  vous  plait,  et  gardy 
mwaw  ung  petty  moreso  de  voter  cure. 

W.  M.  T. 

Paris,  [1849] 

As  my  mother  wants  a  line  from  me,  and  it  would 
cost  me  no  more  to  write  on  two  half  sheets  than  one 
whole  one,  common  economy  suggests  that  I  should 
write  you  a  line  to  say  that  I  am  pretty  well,  and  lead- 


96  LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY 

ing,  as  before,  a  dismal  but  dutiful  life.  I  go  and  sit 
with  the  old  Scotch  widower  every  night,  and  with  my 
aunt  afterwards.  This  isn't  very  amusing,  but  the  sense 
of  virtue  and  self-denial  tickles  one,  as  it  were,  and  I 
come  home  rather  pleased  to  my  bed  of  a  night.  I  shall 
stay  here  for  a  few  days  more.  My  tour  will  be  to 
Boulogne,  probably,  where  I  shan't  find  the  Crowes, 
who  are  going  away,  but  shall  have  Mrs.  Procter;  and 
next  week  will  see  me  back  in  London  probably,  work- 
ing away  as  in  the  old  way. 

Yesterday  I  went  a  little  way  into  the  country  to  see 
Miss  R's  husband,  my  old  friend  S.  They  have  just 
got  a  little  son,  a  beautiful  child,  and  the  happiness  of 
this  couple  was  pleasant,  albeit  somehow  painful,  to 
witness.  She  is  a  very  nice,  elegant  accomplished  young 
lady,  adoring  her  Augustus,  who  is  one  of  the  best  and 
kindest  of  old  snobs.  We  walked  across  vines  to  the 
coach  at  half  past  seven  o'clock,  after  an  evening  of 
two  hours  and  a  half,  which  was  quite  enough  for  me. 
She  is  a  little  thing,  and  put  me  in  mind  of  my  own 
wife  somehow.  Give  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  with  my  respect- 
ful love,  a  good  account  of  her  cousin.  I  am  bound 
to-day  to  another  country  place,  but  don't  like  the  idea 
of  it.  Tomorrow  I  dine  with  Mr.  T.  B.  Macaulay, 
who  is  staying  in  this  hotel. 

And  what  else  has  happened?  I  have  been  to  see  the 
actress,  who  received  us  in  a  yelloAv  satin  drawing  room, 
and  who  told  me  that  she  had  but  one  fault  in  the  world, 
that  she  had  trop  hon  coeur,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say 
that  I  pitched  in  still  stronger  compliments  than  before, 
and  I  daresay  that  she  thinks  the  enormous  old  Eng- 
lishman is  rapturously  in  love  with  her;  but  she  will 
never  see  him  again,  that  faithless  giant.  I  am  past 
the  age  when  Fotheringays  inflame,  but  I  shall  pop 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  97 

her  and  her  boudoir  into  a  book  some  day,  and  that  will 
be  the  end  of  our  transactions.  A  good  character  for  a 
book  accompanied  us  to  the  funeral,  an  expatriated  par- 
son, very  pompous,  and  feeble-minded:  who  gets  his  liv- 
ing by  black  jobs  entirely  and  attends  all  the  funerals 
of  our  countrymen ;  he  has  had  a  pretty  good  season  and 
is  tolerably  cheerful.  I  was  struck  by  "  Behold  I  show 
you  a  mystery"  and  the  noble  words  subsequent,  but 
my  impression  is,  that  St.  Paul  fully  believed  that  the 
end  of  things  and  the  triumph  of  his  adored  master,  was 
to  take  place  in  his  own  time,  or  the  time  of  those  round 
about  him.  Surelj^  St.  John  had  the  same  feeling,  and 
I  suppose  that  this  secret  passed  fondly  among  the  initi- 
ated, and  that  they  died  hoping  for  its  fulfilment.  Is 
this  heresy?    Let  his  reverence  tell  me. 

Madame,  if  you  will  be  so  diffident  about  your  com- 
positions  there  is  no  help  for  it.  Your  letter  made  me 
laugh  very  much,  and  therefore  made  me  happy. 
When  I  saw  that  nice  little  ^Irs.  S.  with  her  child  yes- 
terday, of  course  I  thought  about  somebody  else.  The 
tones  of  a  mother's  voice  speaking  to  an  infant,  play 
the  deuce  with  me  somehow;  that  charming  nonsense 
and  tenderness  work  upon  me  until  I  feel  like  a  woman 
or  a  great  big  baby  myself,— fiddlededee.    .    .    . 

And  here  the  paper  is  full  and  we  come  to  the  final 
G.  B.  Y. 

I  am  always, 

W.  M.  T. 

[Paris,  September  14,  1849.] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

This  letter  doesn't  count,  though  it's  most  prohhly 
the  last  of  the  series.  Yesterday  I  couldn't  write  for  I 
went  to  Chambourey  early  in  the  morning  to  see  those 


98  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

two  poor  ]\Iiss  Powers,  and  the  poor  old  faded  and 
unhappy  D'Orsay,  and  I  did  not  return  home  till 
exactly  1  minute  before  post  time,  perhaps  2  late  for  the 
letter  which  I  flung  into  the  post  last  night.  And  so 
this  is  the  last  of  the  letters  and  I  am  coming  back 
immediately.  The  last  anything  is  unpleasant.  .  .  . 
I  was  to  have  gone  to-morrow  for  certain  to  Boulogne, 
at  least,  but  a  party  to  Fontainebleau  was  proposed — 
by  whom  do  you  think? — by  the  President  himself,  I 
am  going  to  dine  with  him  to-day,  think  of  that!  I 
believe  I  write  this  for  the  purpose  solely  of  telling  j^ou 
this, — the  truth  is  I  have  made  acquaintance  here  with 
Lord  Douglas,  who  is  very  good  natured,  and  I  sup- 
pose has  been  instigating  the  President  to  these  hos- 
pitalities. I  am  afraid  I  disgusted  Macaulay  yesterday 
at  dinner,  at  Sir  George  Napier's.  We  were  told  that 
an  American  lady  was  coming  in  the  evening,  whose 
great  desire  in  life,  was  to  meet  the  author  of  Vanity 
Fair,  and  the  author  of  the  Lays  of  A.  Rome,  so  I 
proposed  to  Macaulay  to  enact  me,  and  to  let  me  take 
his  character.  But  he  said  solemnly,  that  he  did  not 
approve  of  practical  jokes,  and  so  this  sport  did  not 
come  to  pass.  Well,  I  shall  see  you  at  any  rate,  some 
day  before  the  23d.,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  happy  at 
Southampton  enjojdng  the  end  of  the  autumn,  and  I 
shall  be  glad  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  old  Mr.  Williams  too, 
for  I  don't  care  for  new  acquaintances,  whatever  some 
people  say,  and  have  only  your  house  now  where  I  am 
completely  at  home.  I  have  been  idle  here,  but  I  have 
done  plenty  of  dutif ulness,  haven't  I  ?  I  must  go  dress 
myself  and  tell  old  Dr.  Halliday  that  I  am  going  to 
dine  with  the  President,  that  will  please  him  more  than 
even  my  conversation  this  evening,  and  the  event  will 


LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY  99 

be  written  over  to  all  the  family  before  long,  be  sure 
of  that.  Don't  you  think  ^Ir.  Parr  will  like  to  know 
it,  and  that  it  will  put  me  well  with  him?  Perhaps  I 
shall  find  the  grand  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  under 
my  plate,  I  will  put  it  on  and  come  to  you  in  it  in  that 
case. 

I  W'as  going  to  have  the  impudence  to  give  you  a 
daguerreotype  of  myself  which  has  been  done  here,  very 
like  and  droll  it  looks,  but  it  seemed  to  me  too  imperti- 
nent, and  I  gave  it  to  somebody  else.  I've  bought 
William  four  glasses  to  drink  beer  out  of,  since  I  never 
can  get  one  of  the  silver  ones  when  I  come;  don't  let 
him  be  alarmed,  these  only  cost  a  shilling  apiece,  and 
two  such  loves  of  eaii  de  Cologne  bottles  for  INIrs. 
Procter,  and  for  mv  dear  jNIrs.  Brookfield  I  have 
bought  a  diamond  necklace  and  earrings, — I  have 
bought  you  nothing  but  the  handkerchiefs  but  I  hope 
you  will  let  me  give  you  those,  won't  you? 

I  was  ver}^  sorry  for  Turpin,  I  do  feel  an  interest  in 
her,  and  I  think  she  is  very  pretty,  all  this  I  solemnly 
vow  and  protest.  My  paper  is  out,  here's  the  last  cor- 
ner of  the  last  letter.  I  wonder  who  will  ask  me  to  dine 
on  Monday  next. 

October  31st.    [1849] 

My  dear  ISIoxsieur  et  Madame: 

Harrv  says  that  you  won't  eat  your  dinner  well  if  I 
don't  write  and  tell  j^'ou  that  I  am  thriving,  and  though 
I  don't  consider  this  a  letter  at  all  but  simply  a  mes- 
sage, I  have  to  state  that  I  am  doing  exceedingly  well, 
that  I  ate  a  mutton  chop  just  now  in  Harry's  presence 
with  great  gusto,  that  I  slept  12  hours  last  night  and 


100  LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY 

in  fact  advance  by  steps  which  grow  every  day  more 
firm  toward  convalescence.  If  you  will  both  come  down 
here  I  will  give  you  beautiful  rooms  and  the  best  of 
mutton.  — I  shall  stop  till  Monday  certainly,  after  which 
I  may  probably  go  to  the  club. 

G.  B.  Y.  Both  on  you. 

W.  M.  T. 

[Probably  from  Brighton  after  serious  illness.] 

[Dec:  1849] 
My  dear  Lady: 

The  weather  is  so  fine  and  cheerful  that  I  have  made 
my  mind  up  to  go  down  to  Brighton  tomorrow,  or  some- 
where where  I  can  be  alone,  and  think  about  my  friend 
Mr.  Pendennis,  whom  I  have  been  forced  to  neglect. 
I  have  been  working  now  until  seven  o'clock  and  am 
dead  beat,  having  done  a  poor  dawdling  day's  work, 
writing  too  much,  hipped,  hacked  and  blue-devilled.  I 
passed  Portman  Street  after  an  hour's  ride  in  the  Park 
but  hadn't  time  to  come  in,  the  infernal  task-master 
hanging  over  me ;  so  I  gave  my  bridle  reins  a  shake  and 
plunged  into  doggerel.  Good  bye  God  bless  you,  come 
soon  back  both  of  you.  Write  to  me  won't  you?  I  wish 
a  Merry  Christmas  for  you  and  am 

always  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

Fragment. 

[Christmas,  1849] 

I  stop  in  the  middle  of  Costigan  with  a  remark 
applied  to  readers  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  and  others, 
which  is,  I  think,  that  cushion-thumpers  and  High  and 


C%   I  liunM  tio*^  uKi  t^  luHiitt  t  ^t4i«t  ^3r(rui/ 


A  note  and  sketch  sent  by  Thackeray  to  Mrs.  Elliot,  in  the  possession  of  Miss  Kate  Perry 


■■  This  note  and  sketch,  and  those  on  pp.  78  and  150,  were  written  and  drawn  for  my  friends  Mrs.  Elliot  and 
her  sister  Miss  Perry,  who  has  kindly  sent  them  to  me.  to  add  to  my  own  letters,  as  they  belong  to  the  same 
period  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  life."— J.  O.  B. 


•IU*4u^    ku^U^  1^^iuJUH  Jd^lu  Hu  /*^  ULu  )  C  Si. 

4^7    I  4(44,  iU   llu  A<^(    ^  U/tJtiMA   "Hu,    <«4*^  Uft'  uii* 

*  IL  L^f  44aMv  (it4«iu  <M4  <|rft«.  <U^  ,'}hJ  eu  locA^ufJU^ 


LETTERS   OF   THACKEKAY  101 

Low  Church  extatics,  have  often  carried  what  they  call 
their  love  for  A  to  what  seems  impertinence  to  me. 

How  good  my  has  been  to  me  in  sending  me  a 

back  ache, — how  good  in  taking  it  away,  how  blessed 
the  spiritual  gift  which  enabled  me  to  receive  the  ser- 
mon this  morning, — how  trying  my  dryness  at  this 
afternoon's  discourse,  &c.  I  sav  it  is  awful  and 
blasj^hemous  to  be  calling  upon  Heaven  to  interfere 
about  the  thousand  trivialities  of  a  man's  life,   that 

has  ordered  me  something  indigestible  for  dinner, 

(which  maj^  account  for  my  dryness  in  the  afternoon's 
discourse)  ;  to  say  that  it  is  Providence  that  sends  a 
draught  of  air  upon  me  which  gives  me  a  cold  in  the 
head,  or  superintends  personally  the  action  of  the 
James'  powder  which  makes  me  well.  Bow  down. 
Confess,  Adore,  Admire,  and  Reverence  infinitely. 
Make  your  act  of  faith  and  trust.  Acknowledge  with 
constant  awe  the  idea  of  the  infinite  Presence  over  all. 
— But  what  impudence  it  is  in  us,  to  talk  about  loving 
God  enough,  if  I  may  so  speak.  .  Wretched  little  blind- 
lings,  what  do  we  know  about  Him?  Who  says  that 
we  are  to  sacrifice  the  human  affections  as  disrespectful 
to  God?  The  liars,  the  wretched  canting  fakirs  of 
Christianism,  the  convent  and  conventicle  dervishes, — 
they  are  only  less  unreasonable  now  than  the  Eremites 
and  holy  women  who  whipped  and  starved  themselves, 
never  washed,  and  encouraged  vermin  for  the  glory  of 
God.  Washing  is  allowed  now,  and  bodily  filth  and 
pain  not  always  enjoined;  but  still  they  say,  shut 
your  ears  and  don't  hear  music,  close  your  eyes  and 
don't  see  nature  and  beauty,  steel  your  hearts  and  be 
ashamed  of  your  love  for  your  neighbour;  and  timid 
fond  souls  scared  by  their  curses,  and  bending  before 


102  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

their  unending  arrogance  and  dulness,  consent  to  be 
miserable,  and  bare  their  soft  shoulders  for  the  brutes' 
stripes,  according  to  the  nature  of  women.  You  dear 
Suttees,  you  get  ready  and  glorify  in  being  martyrized. 
Nature,  truth,  love,  protest  day  after  day  in  your  ten- 
der hearts  against  the  stupid  remorseless  tyranny  which 
bullies  you.  Why  you  dear  creature,  what  a  history 
that  is  in  the  Thomas  a  Kempis  book!  The  scheme  of 
that  book  carried  out  would  make  the  world  the  most 
wretched,  useless,  dreary,  doting  place  of  sojourn — 
there  would  be  no  manhood,  no  love,  no  tender  ties  of 
mother  and  child,  no  use  of  intellect,  no  trade  or  science, 
a  set  of  selfish  beings  crawling  about  avoiding  one 
another  and  howling  a  perpetual  miserere.  We  know 
that  deductions  like  this  have  been  drawn  from  the 
teaching  of  J.  C,  but  please  God  the  world  is  preparing 
to  throw  them  over,  and  I  won't  believe  them  though 
they  are  written  in  ever  so  many  books,  any  more  than 
that  the  sky  is  green  or  the  grass  red.  Those  brutes  made 
the  grass  red  many  a  time,  fancying  they  were  acting 
rightly,  amongst  others  with  the  blood  of  the  person 
who  was  born  to-day.  Good-bye  my  dear  lady  and  my 
dear  old  William. 

Fragment. 

[1850] 

I  was  too  tired  to  talk  to  Madam  when  I  sent  away 
the  packet  of  MS  to-day.  I'm  not  much  better  now, 
only  using  her  as  pastime  at  a  club  half  an  hour  before 
dinner.  That's  the  way  we  use  women.  Well,  I  was 
rather  pleased  with  the  manuscript  I  sent  you  to-day,  it 
seems  to  me  to  be  good  comedy,  my  mother  would  have 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY  103 

acted  in  just  such  a  way  if  I  had  run  away  with  a 
naughty  woman,  that  is  I  hope  she  would,  though  per- 
haps she  is  prouder  than  I  am  myself.  I  read  over  the 
first  part  of  Pendennis  to-day,  all  the  Emily  Costigan 
part,  and  liked  it,  I  am  glad  to  say;  but  I  am  shocked 
to  think  that  I  had  forgotten  it,  and  read  it  almost  as  a 
new  book.  I  remembered  allusions  which  called  back 
recollections  of  particular  states  of  mind.  The  first  part 
of  that  book  was  written  after  Clevedon  in  1848.  ,  .  . 
What  a  wholesome  thing  fierce  mental  occupation  is! 
Better  than  dissipation  to  take  thoughts  out  of  one; 
only  one  can't  always  fix  the  mind  down  and  other 
thoughts  will  bother  it.  Yesterday  I  sat  for  six  hours 
and  could  do  no  work;  I  wasn't  sentimentalizing  but  I 
couldn't  get  the  pen  to  go,  and  at  four,  rode  out  into 
the  country  and  saw,  whom  do  you  think?  O!  lache, 
coward,  sneak,  and  traitor,  that  pretty  jNIrs.  ]M.  I  wrote 
you  about.  The  night  before  in  the  same  way,  restless 
and  wandering  aventurier  (admire  my  constant  use  of 
French  terms),  I  went  to  Mrs.  Prinsep's  and  saw  Vir- 
ginia, then  to  Miss  Berrys'  and  talked  to  Lord  Lans- 
downe  who  was  very  jolly  and  kind. 

Then  to  Lady  Ashburton,  where  were  Jocelyns  just 
come  back  from  Paris,  my  lady  in  the  prettiest  wreath. 
— We  talked  about  the  Gorham  controversy,  I  think, 
and  when  the  Jocelyns  were  gone  about  John  Mill's 
noble  Article  in  theWestminster  Review;  an  article  which 
you  mustn't  read,  because  it  will  shock  your  dear  con- 
victions, but  wherein,  as  it  seems  to  me,  a  great  soul 
speaks  great  truths;  it  is  time  to  begin  speaking  truth 
I  think.  Lady  Ashburton  says  not.  Our  Lord  spoke 
it  and  was  killed  for  it,  and  Stephen,  and  Paul,  who 


104  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

slew  Stephen.  We  shuffle  and  compromise  and  have 
Gorham  controversies  and  say,  "let  things  go  on 
smoothl}^"  and  Jock  Campbell  writes  to  the  Mother- 
Superior,  and  Milman  makes  elegant  after-dinner 
speeches  at  the  INIansion  House — humbugs  all!  I  am 
becoming  very  stupid  and  rabid,  dinner-time  is  come; 
such  a  good  dinner,  truth  be  hanged!  Let  us  go  to 
Portland  Place. 

IJuly,  1850] 
My  dear  Lady: 

I  have  had  a  bad  week  and  a  most  cruel  time  of  it  this 

month;  my  groans  were  heart-rending,  my  sufferings 

immense;  I  thought  No.  XIX  would  never  be  born 

alive; — It  is,  but  stupid,  ricketty,  and  of  feeble  intellect, 

I  fear.    Isn't  that  a  pretty  obstetrical  metaphor?    Well, 

I  suppose  I  couldn't  get  on  because  I  hadn't  you  to 

come  and  grumble  to.    You  see  habit  does  so  much,  and 

though  there  is  Blanche  Stanley  to  be  sure,  yet  shall  I 

tell  you, — I  will  though  perhaps  you  won't  believe  it— 

I  haven't  been  there  for  a  month.    And  what  a  singular 

thing  it  is  about  my  dear  friend  Miss  F.— that  I  never 

spoke  to  her  but  once  in  my  life  when  I  think  the 

weather  was  our  subject— and  as  for  telling  her  that  I 

had  drawn  Amelia  from  anybody  of  our  acquaintance 

I  should  have  as  soon  thought  of — of  what?     I  have 

been  laboriously  crossing  all  mj''  t's,  see,  and  thinking 

of  a  simile.     But  it's  good  fun  about  poor  little  B. 

Does  any  body  suppose  I  should  be  such  an  idiot  as  to 

write  verses  to  her?    I  never  wrote  her  a  line.     I  once 

drew  one  picture  in  her  music  book,  a  caricature  of  a 

spoony  song,  in  which  I  laughed  at  her,  as  has  been 

my  practice— alas!  .  .  .  The  only  person  to  whom    I 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  105 

remember  having  said  anything  about  Ameha  was  the 
late  jMrs.  Bancroft,  as  I  told  you,  and  that  was  by  a 
surprise. 

Yesterday  after  a  hard  day's  labour  went  out  to 
Richmond;  dined  with  old  INIiss  Berrys.  Lord 
Brougham  there,  enormously  good  fun,  boiling  over 
with  humour  and  mischief,  the  best  and  wickedest  old 
fellow  I've  met,  I  think.  And  I  was  better  in  health 
than  I've  been  for  a  fortnight  past.  O!  how  I  should 
like  to  come  on  Sunday  by  the  Excursion  train,  price  5|, 
and  shake  hands  and  come  back  again!  I've  been  work- 
ing Pen  all  the  morning  and  reading  back  numbers  in 
order  to  get  up  names  &c.,  I'd  forgotten.  I  lit  upon  a 
very  stupid  part  I'm  sorry  to  say;  and  j^et  how  well 
written  it  is!  What  a  shame  the  author  don't  write  a 
complete  good  story.  Will  he  die  before  doing  so?  or 
come  back  from  America  and  do  it? — 

And  now  on  account  of  the  confounded  post  regula- 
tions—  I  shan't  be  able  to  hear  a  word  of  you  till  Tues- 
day. It's  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  cut  2  days  out  of  our  week 
as  the  Pharisees  do— and  I'll  never  forgive  Lord  John 
Russell,  never. — The  young  ladies  are  now  getting 
ready  to  walk  abroad  with  their  dear  Par.  —  It  is  but  a 
hasty  letter  I  send  you  dear  lady,  but  my  hand  is  weary 
with  writing  Pendennis — and  my  head  boiling  up  with 
some  nonsense  that  I  must  do  after  dinner  for  Punch. 
Isn't  it  strange  that,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  selfishness, 
that  one  of  doing  one's  business,  is  the  strongest  of  all. 
What  funny  songs  I've  written  when  fit  to  hang  myself! 

Thursday. 
As  I  am  not  to  come  back  till  Saturday,  and  lest  you 
should  think  that  any  illness  had  befallen  me,  dear  lady, 


106  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

I  send  you  a  little  note.  This  place  is  as  handsome  as 
man  could  desire;  the  park  beautiful,  the  quizeen  and 
drinks  excellent,  the  landlord  most  polite  and  good 
natured,  with  a  very  winning  simplicity  of  manner  and 
bonhomie,  and  the  small  select  party  tolerably  pleasant. 
Charles  Villiers,  a  bitter  Voltairian  joker,  who  always 
surprises  one  into  laughter; — Peacock— did  you  ever 
read  Headlong  Hall  and  Maid  Marian?— a  charming 
lyrical  poet  and  Horatian  satirist  he  was  when  a  writer; 
now  he  is  a  whiteheaded  jolly  old  worldling,  and  Secre- 
tary to  the  E.  India  House,  full  of  information  about 
India  and  everything  else  in  the  world.  There  are 
4  or  5  more,  2  young  lords, — one  extremely  pleasant, 
gentleman-like,  and  modest,  who  has  seen  battles  in 
India  and  gives  himself  not  the  least  airs; — and  there 
are  the  young  ladies,  2  pretty  little  girls,  with  whom 
I  don't  get  on  very  well  though, — nor  indeed  with  any- 
body over  well.  There's  something  wanting,  I  can't  tell 
you  what;  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  on  the  homeward 
way  again,  but  they  wouldn't  hear  of  my  going  on  Fri- 
day, and  it  was  only  by  a  strong  effort  that  I  could  get 
leave  for  Saturday. 

This  paper  you  see  is  better,  I  bought  it  regardless 
of  expense— half  a  ream  of  it,  at  Bristol. 

That  Bristol  terminus  is  a  confounding  place.  I 
missed  the  train  I  was  to  go  by,  had  very  nearly  gone 
to  Exeter  and  was  obliged  to  post  twenty-five  miles  in 
the  dark,  from  Chippenham,  in  order  to  get  here  too 
late  for  dinner.  Whilst  I  am  writing  to  you  what  am 
I  thinking  of?  Something  else  to  be  sure,  and  have  a 
doggerel  ballad  about  a  yellow  "  Post  Chay  "  running  in 
my  head  which  I  ouglit  to  do  for  Mr.  Punch. 

We  went  to  the  little  church  yesterday,  where  in  a 


LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY  107 

great  pew  with  a  fire  in  it,  I  said  the  best  prayers  I 
could  for  them  as  I  am  fond  of.  I  wish  one  of  them 
would  get  well  ...  I  must  give  my  young  ones  three 
or  four  weeks  of  Paris  and  may  go  a  travelling  myself 
during  that  time;  for  I  think  my  dear  old  mother  will 
be  happier  with  the  children  and  without  their  father, 
and  will  like  best  to  have  them  all  to  herself.  IMon  dieu, 
is  that  the  luncheon  bell  already?  I  was  late  at  dinner 
yesterday,  and  late  at  breakfast  this  morning.  It  is 
eating  and  idling  all  day  long,  but  not  altogether 
profitless  idling,  I  have  seen  winter  woods,  winter  land- 
scapes, a  kennel  of  hounds,  jolly  sportsmen  riding  out 
a  hunting,  a  queer  little  country  church  with  a  choir 
not  in  surplices  but  in  smock-frocks,  and  many  a 
sight  pleasant  to  think  on.  —  I  must  go  to  lunch  and 
finish  after,  both  with  my  dear  lady  and  the  yellow 
po'chay. 

Will  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brookfield  come  and  dine  with 
Mr.  Thackeray  on  Saturday?  He  will  arrive  by  the 
train  which  reaches  London  at  5.25,  and  it  would  be 
very,  very  pleasant  if  you  could  come— or  one  of  you, 
man  or  woman.  JNIeanwhile  I  close  up  my  packet  with 
a  g.  b.  y.  to  my  dear  lady  and  a  kiss  to  Miss  Brookfield, 
and  go  out  for  a  walk  in  the  woods  with  a  noble  party 
that  is  waiting  down-stairs.  The  days  pass  away  in 
spite  of  us,  and  we  are  carried  along  the  rapid  stream 
of  time,  you  see.  And  if  days  pass  quick,  why  a  month 
will,  and  then  we  shall  be  cosily  back  in  London  once 
more,  and  I  shall  see  you  at  your  own  fire,  or  lying 
on  your  own  sofa,  very  quiet  and  calm  after  all  this 
trouble  and  turmoil.  God  bless  you,  dear  lady  and 
William,  and  your  little  maiden. 

W.  M.  T. 


108  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

26  February,  1850. 

After  hearing  that  Miss  Brookfield  was  doing  well 
in  the  arms  of  her  Mamma,  if  you  please,  I  rode  in  the 
Park  on  Tuesday,  where  there  was  such  a  crowd  of  car- 
riages along  the  Serpentine,  that  I  blushed  to  be  on 
horseback  there,  and  running  the  gauntlet  of  so  many 
beauties.  Out  of  a  thousand  carriages  I  didn't  know 
one,  which  was  odd,  and  it  strikes  one  as  showing  the 
enormity  of  London.  Of  course  if  there  had  been  any- 
body in  the  carriages  I  should  have  known  them,  but 
there  was  nobody,  positively  nobody.  (This  sentence 
isn't  as  neatly  turned  as  it  might  have  been,  and  is  by 
no  means  so  playfully  satirical  as  could  be  wished.) 
Riding  over  the  Serpentine  Bridge,  six  horsemen,  with 
a  lady  in  the  middle,  came  galloping  upon  me,  and  sent 
me  on  to  the  foot  pavement  in  a  fright,  when  they  all 
pulled  up  at  a  halt,  and  the  lady  in  the  middle  cried 
out.  How  do  you  do  Mr.  &c.  The  lady  in  the  middle 
was  pretty  Mrs.  L.  She  made  me  turn  back  with  the 
six  horsemen;  of  course  I  took  off  my  hat  with  a  pro- 
found bow,  and  said  that  to  follow  in  her  train  was  my 
greatest  desire — and  we  rode  back,  all  through  the  car- 
riages, making  an  immense  clatter  and  sensation,  which 
the  lady  in  the  middle,  her  name  was  Mrs.  Liddle, 
enjoyed  very  much.  She  looked  uncommonly  handsome, 
she  had  gentlemen  with  moustachios  on  each  side  of  her. 
I  thought  we  looked  like  Brighton  bucks  or  provincial 
swells,  and  felt  by  no  means  elated. 

Then  we  passed  out  of  Hyde  Park  into  the  Green 
Ditto,  where  the  lady  in  the  middle  said  she  must  have 
a  canter,  and  off  we  set,  the  moustachios,  the  lady,  and 
myself,  skurrying  the  policemen  off  the  road  and 
making  the  walkers  stare.    I  was  glad  M'hen  we  got  to 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  109 

St.  James'  Park  gate,  where  I  could  take  leave  of  that 
terrific  black-eyed  beauty,  and  ride  away  by  myself. 
As  I  rode  home  by  the  Elliot's  I  longed  to  go  in  and 
tell  them  what  had  happened,  and  how^  it  was  your  little 
girl's  birth-day ;  but  I  did  not,  but  came  home  and  drank 
her  health  instead,  and  wrote  her  a  letter  and  slept 
sound. 

Yesterday  after  writing  for  three  hours  or  so,  what 
did  I  go  out  for  to  see?  First  the  jNIiss  Jingleby's, 
looking  very  fresh  and  pretty ;  you  see  we  have  consola- 
tions; then  a  poor  fellow  dying  of  consumption.  He 
talked  as  they  all  do,  with  a  jaunty,  lively  manner,  as  if 
he  should  recover;  his  sister  sat  with  us,  looking  very 
wistfully  at  him  as  he  talked  on  about  hunting,  and  how 
he  had  got  his  cold  by  falling  with  his  horse  in  a  brook, 
and  how  he  should  get  better  by  going  to  St.  Leonard's ; 
and  I  said  of  course  he  would,  and  his  sister  looked  at 
him  very  hard.  As  I  rode  away  through  Brompton,  I 
met  two  ladies  not  of  my  acquaintance,  in  a  brougham, 
who  nevertheless  ogled  and  beckoned  me  in  a  very  win- 
ning manner,  which  made  me  laugh  most  wonderful. 
O!  you  poor  little  painted  Jezebels,  thinks  I,  do  you 
think  you  can  catch  such  a  grey-headed  old  fogey  as 
me?  poor  little  things.  Behind  them  came  dear,  honest, 
kind  Castlereagh,  galloping  along;  he  pulled  up  and 
shook  hands;  that  good  fellow  was  going  on  an  errand 
of  charity  and  kindness,  consumption  hospital,  woman 
he  knows  to  get  in,  and  so  forth.  There's  a  deal  of  good 
in  the  wicked  world,  isn't  there?  I  am  sure  it  is  partly 
because  he  is  a  lord  that  I  like  that  man;  but  it  is  his 
lovingness,  manliness,  and  simplicity  which  I  like  best. 
Then  I  went  to  Chesham  Place,  where  I  told  them  about 
things.  You  ought  to  be  fond  of  those  two  women, 
they  speak  so  tenderly  of  you.     Kate  Perrj'-  is  very  ill 


110  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

and  can  scarcely  speak  with  a  sore  throat;  they  gave  me 
a  pretty  bread  tray,  which  they  have  carved  for  me, 
with  wheat-ears  round  the  edge,  and  W.  M.  T.  in  the 
centre.  O !  yes,  but  before  that  I  had  ridden  in  the  Park, 
and  met  dear  old  Elliotson,  thundering  along  with  the 
great  horses,  at  ten  miles  an  hour.  The  little  'oss  trotted 
by  the  great  'osses  quite  easily  though,  and  we  shook 
hands  at  a  capital  pace,  and  talked  in  a  friendly  man- 
ner, and  as  I  passed  close  by  your  door,  why  I  just 
went  in  and  saw  William  and  INIrs.  F.  Then  at  eight 
o'clock,  a  grand  dinner  in  Jewry.  .  .  .  My!  what 
a  fine  dinner,  what  plate  and  candelabra,  what  a  deal 
of  good  things,  and  sweetmeats  especially  wonder- 
ful. The  Christians  were  in  a  minority.  Lady  C. 
beautiful,  serene,  stupid  old  lady;  she  asked  Isn't  that 
the  great  Mr.  Thackeray?    O!  my  stars  think  of  that! 

Lord   JNI H celebrated   as   a   gourmand;   he 

kindly  told  me  of  a  particular  dish,  which  I  was  not  to 
let  pass,  something  a  la  Pompadour,  very  nice.  Charles 
Villiers,  Lady  Hislop,  pretty  little  Hattie  Elliot,  and 
Lady  Somebody, — and  then  I  went  to  ]Miss  Berrys' — 
Kinglake,  Phillips,  Lady  Stuart  de  Rothesay,  Lady 
Waterford's  mother,  Colonel  Damer.  There's  a  day 
for  you.  Well,  it  was  a  very  pleasant  one,  and  per- 
haps this  gossij)  about  it,  will  amuse  my  dear  lady. 


[Written  to  Mrs.  Fanshawe  and  Mrs.  Brookfield.] 

Hotel  Bristol,  Place  Vendome. 

Tuesday,  JNIarch  5th.  1850 
My  dear  Ladies: 

I  am  arrived  just  this  minute  safe  and  sound  under 

the  most  beautiful  blue  sky,  after  a  fair  passage  and  a 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY  111 

good  night's  rest  at  Boulogne,  where  I  found,  what  do 
you  think?— a  letter  from  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  dated 
September  13th,  which  somehow  gave  me  as  much  pleas- 
ure as  if  it  had  been  a  fresh  letter  almost,  and  for  which 
I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  I  travelled  to  Paris 
with  a  character  for  a  book,  Lord  Howden,  the  ex-beau 
Caradoc  or  Cradock,  a  man  for  whom  more  women  have 
gone  distracted  than  you  have  any  idea  of.  So  delight- 
ful a  middle-aged  dandy!  Well,  he  will  make  a  page 
in  some  book  some  dav.  In  the  meantime  I  want  to 
know  why  there  is  no  letter  to  tell  me  that  madame  is 
getting  on  well.  I  should  like  to  hear  so  much.  It  seems 
a  shame  to  have  come  away  yesterday  without  going  to 
ask.  It  was  the  suddenest  freak,  done,  packed  and  gone 
in  half  an  hour,  hadn't  time  even  to  breakfast.  .  .  . 
And  as  I  really  wanted  a  little  change  and  fresh  air  for 
my  lungs,  I  think  I  did  well  to  escape.   .    .    . 

I  send  this  by  the  oNIorning  Chronicle's  packet.  Don't 
be  paying  letters  to  me,  but  write  &  write  away,  and 
never  mind  the  expense,  ^Irs.  Fanshawe. 

W.  M.  T. 


Hotel  Bristol,  Place  Vendome. 

[1850] 
JNIadame  : 

One  is  arrived,  one  is  at  his  ancient  lodging  of  the 
Hotel  Bristol,  one  has  heard  the  familiar  clarions  sound 
at  nine  hours  and  a  half  under  the  Column,  the  place  is 
whipped  by  the  rain  actually,  and  only  rare  umbrellas 
make  themselves  to  see  here  and  there;  London  is  grey 
and  brumous,  but  scarcely  more  sorrowful  than  this. 
For  so  love  I  these  places,  it  is  with  the  eyes  that  the 


112  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

sun  makes  itself  on  the  first  day  at  Paris;  one  has  suf- 
fered, one  has  been  disabused,  but  one  is  not  biased  to 
this  point  that  nothing  more  excites,  nothing  amuses. 
The  first  day  of  Paris  amuses  always.  Isn't  this  a  per- 
fectly odious  and  affected  style  of  writing?  Wouldn't 
j^ou  be  disgusted  to  have  a  letter  written  all  like  that? 
Many  people  are  scarcely  less  affected,  though,  in  com- 
posing letters,  and  translate  their  thoughts  into  a  pom- 
pous unfamiliar  language,  as  necessary  and  proper  for 
the  circumstances  of  letter- writing.  In  the  midst  of 
this  sentiment  Jeames  comes  in,  having  been  emploj^ed 
to  buy  pens  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  having  paid  he 
said  three  francs  for  twenty. — I  go  out  in  a  rage  to 
the  shop,  thinking  to  confound  the  woman  who  had 
cheated  him;  I  place  him  outside  the  shop  and  entering 
myself  ask  the  price  of  a  score  of  pens;  one  franc  says 
the  woman;  I  call  in  Jeames  to  confront  him  with  the 
tradeswoman;  she  says,  I  sold  monsieur  a  box  of  pens, 
he  gave  me  a  five-franc  piece,  I  returned  him  two 
2-f ranc  pieces,  and  so  it  was ;  only  Jeames  never  having 
before  seen  a  two-franc  piece,  thought  that  she  had 
given  back  two  franc  pieces;  and  so  nobody  is  cheated, 
and  I  had  my  walk  in  the  rain  for  nothing. 

But  as  this  had  brought  me  close  to  the  Palais  Royal, 
where  there  is  the  exhibition  of  pictures,  I  went  to  see 
it,  wondering  whether  I  could  turn  an  honest  pennj^  bj^ 
criticising  the  same.  But  I  find  I  have  nothing  to  say 
about  pictures.  A  pretty  landscape  or  two  pleased  me ; 
no  statues  did;  some  great  big  historical  pictures  bored 
me.  This  is  a  poor  account  of  a  Paris  exhibition,  isn't 
it?  looking  for  half  a  minute  at  a  work  which  had  taken 
a  man  all  his  might  and  main  for  a  year;  on  which  he 
had  employed  all  his  talents,  and  set  all  his  hopes  and 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  113 

ambition;  about  which  he  had  lain  awake  at  night  very 
probably,  and  pinched  himself  of  a  dinner  that  he  might 
buy  colours  or  pay  models, — I  say  it  seems  very  unkind 
to  look  at  such  a  thing  with  a  yawn  and  turn  away 
indifferent;  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  cold,  marble 
statues  looked  after  me  reproachfully  and  said,  "  Come 
back,  you  sir!  don't  neglect  me  in  this  rude  way.  I  am 
very  beautiful,  I  am  indeed.  I  have  many  hidden 
charms  and  qualities  which  j^ou  don't  know  yet,  and 
which  you  would  know  and  love  if  you  would  but 
examine  a  little."  But  I  didn't  come  back,  the  world 
didn't  care  for  the  hidden  charms  of  the  statue,  but 
passed  on  and  yawned  over  the  next  article  in  the  Cata- 
logue. There  is  a  moral  to  this  fable,  I  think;  and  that 
is  all  I  got  out  of  the  exhibition  of  the  Palais  Royal. 

Then  I  went  to  beat  up  the  old  haunts,  and  look 
about  for  lodgings  which  are  awfuly  scarce  and  dear 
in  this  quarter.  Here  they  can  only  take  me  in  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  I  am  occupying  at  present  two  rooms 
in  a  gorgeous  suite  of  apartments  big  enough  and 
splendid  enough  for  the  Lord  Chief  Baron  ^  and  all 
his  family.  Oh !  but  first,  I  forgot,  I  went  to  breakfast 
Mdth  Bear  Ellice,  who  told  me  Lady  Sandwich  had  a 
grand  ball,  and  promised  to  take  me  to  a  soiree  at  Mon- 
sieur Duchatel's.  I  went  there  after  dining  at  home. 
Splendid  hotel  in  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain;  mag- 
nificent drawing  room;  vulgar  people,  I  thought;  the 
walls  were  splendidly  painted;  "  C'est  du  Louis  Quinze 
ou  du  commencement  de  Louis  XVI,"  the  host  said. 
Blagueur!  the  painting  is  about  ten  years  old,  and  is 
of  the  highly  ornamental  Cafe  school.  It  is  a  Louis 
Phillippist  house,  and  everybody  was  in  mourning — for 

1  The  late  Lord  Chief  Baron  was  the  father  of  thirty-two  children. 


114  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

the  dear  Queen  of  the  Belgians,  I  suppose.  The  men 
as  they  arrived  went  up  and  made  their  bows  to  the  lady 
of  the  house,  who  sat  by  the  fire  talking  to  other  two 
ladies,  and  this  bow  over,  the  gentlemen  talked,  standing, 
to  each  other.  It  was  uncommonly  stupid.  Then  we  went 
off  to  Lady  Sandwich's  ball.  I  had  wrote  a  note  to  her 
ladyship  in  the  morning,  and  received  a  Kyind  invita- 
tion. Everybody  was  there,  Thiers,  Mole,  and  the 
French  Sosoiatee,  and  lots  of  English ;  the  Castlereaghs, 
very  kind  and  hearty,  my  lady  looking  very  pretty, 
and  Cas —  (mark  the  easy  grace  of  Cas)  — well,  and 
clear-sighted;  Lord  Normanby  and  wife,  exceeding 
gracious; — Lady  Waldegrave; — all  sorts  of  world,  and 
if  I  want  the  reign  of  pleasure,  it  is  here,  it  is  here. 
Gudin  the  painter  asked  me  to  dine  today  and  meet 
Dumas,  which  will  be  amusing  I  hope. 

And  I  forgot  to  say  that  JNIr.  Thomas  Eraser  saj^s, 
that  Mr.  Inspector  Brookfield  is  the  most  delightful  fel- 
low he  ever  met.  I  went  to  see  my  aunt  besides  all  this, 
and  the  evening  and  the  morning  was  the  first  day. 

Sunday  morning.  I  passed  the  morning  yesterday 
writing  the  scene  of  a  play,  so  witty  and  diabolical  that 
I  shall  be  curious  to  know  if  it  is  good ;  and  went  to  the 
pictures  again,  and  afterwards  to  Lady  Castlereagh 
and  other  polite  persons,  finishing  the  afternoon  duti- 
fully at  home,  and  with  my  aunt  and  cousins,  whom  you 
would  like.  At  dinner  at  Gudin's  there  was  a  great 
stupid  company,  and  I  sat  between  one  of  the  stupid- 
est and  handsomest  women  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  and 
a  lady  to  whom  I  made  three  observations  which  she 
answered  with  Oui,  Monsieur,  and  non,  monsieur,  and 
then  commenced  a  conversation  over  my  back  with  my 
handsome  neighbour.    If  this  is  French  manners,  says 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  115 

I,  Civility  be  hanged,  and  so  I  ate  my  dinner;  and  did 
not  say  one  word  more  to  that  woman. 

But  there  were  some  pleasant  people  in  spite  of  her: 
a  painter  (portrait)  with  a  leonine  mane,  Mr.  Gigoux, 
that  I  took  a  liking  to;  an  old  general,  jolly  and  gentle- 
manlike, a  humorous  Prince,  agreeable  and  easy:  and 
a  wonderful  old  buck,  who  was  my  pleasure.  The  party 
disported  themselves  until  pretty  late,  and  we  went  up 
into  a  tower  fitted  up  in  the  Arabian  fashion  and  there 
smoked,  which  did  not  diminish  the  pleasure  of  the  eve- 
ning. Mrs.  L.  the  engineer's  wife,  brought  me  home 
in  her  brougham,  the  great  engineer  sitting  bodkin  and 
his  wife  scolding  me  amiably,  about  Laura  and  Pen- 
dennis.  A  handsome  woman  this  Mrs.  L.  must  have 
been  when  her  engineer  married  her,  but  not  quite  up 
to  her  present  aggrandized  fortune.    .    .    . 

My  old  folks  were  happy  in  their  quarter,  and  good 
old  G.  P.  bears  the  bore  of  the  children  constantly  in 
his  room,  with  great  good  humour.  But  ah,  somehow  it 
is  a  dismal  end  to  a  career.  A  famous  beauty  and  a 
soldier  who  has  been  in  twenty  battles  and  led  a  half 
dozen  of  storming  parties!  Here  comes  Jeames  to  say 
that  the  letters  must  this  instant  go;  and  so  God  bless 
you  and  your  husband  and  little  maiden,  and  write  soon, 
my  dear  kind  lady,  to 

W.  M.  T. 


[Paris,  1850] 

I  send  this  scrap  by  a  newspaper  correspondent,  just 
to  say  I  am  very  well  and  so  awfully  hard  at  business 
I  have  no  time  for  more. 


116  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

Wednesday. 
Mi\DAM  AND  Dear  Lady: 

If  I  have  no  better  news  to  send  you  than  this,  praj^ 
don't  mind,  but  keep  the  enclosures  safe  for  me  against 
I  come  back,  which  won't  be  many  days  now,  please 
God.  I  had  thought  of  setting  off  tomorrow,  but  as  I 
have  got  into  working  trim,  I  think  I  had  best  stop 
here  and  do  a  great  bit  of  my  number,  before  I  unset- 
tle myself  b}'-  another  journey.  I  have  been  to  no  gaieties, 
for  I  have  been  laid  up  with  a  violent  cold  and  cough, 
which  kept  me  in  my  rooms,  too  stuj^id  even  to  write. 
But  these  ills  have  cleared  away  pretty  well  now,  and 
I  am  bent  upon  going  out  to  dinner  an  cabaret,  and  to 
some  fun  afterwards,  I  don't  know  where,  nor  scarce 
what  I  write,  I  am  so  tired.  I  wonder  what  will  hap- 
pen with  Pendennis  and  Fanny  Bolton;  writing  it  and 
sending  it  to  you,  somehow  it  seems  as  if  it  were  true. 
I  shall  know  more  about  them  tomorrow;  but  mind, 
mind  and  keep  the  manuscript;  you  see  it  is  five  pages, 
fifteen  pounds,  by  the  immortal  Gods! 

I  am  asked  to  a  marriage  tomorrow,  a  young  Foker, 
of  twentj^-two,  with  a  lady  here,  a  widow,  and  once  a 
runaway. 

The  pen  drops  out  of  my  hand,  it's  so  tired,  but  as 
the  ambassador's  bag  goes  for  nothing,  I  like  to  say 
how  do  you  do,  and  remember  me  to  Miss  Brookfield, 
and  shake  hands  with  William.    God  bless  you  all. 

This  note  which  was  to  have  gone  away  yesterday, 
was  too  late  for  the  bag,  and  I  was  at  work  too  late 
today  to  write  a  word  for  anj^thing  but  Pendennis:  I 
hope  I  sliall  bring  a  great  part  of  it  home  with  me  at 
the  end  of  the  week,  in  the  meantime  don't  put  you  to 


LETT^ERS    OF    THACKERAY  117 

the  trouble  of  the  manuscript,  which  you  see  I  was  only 
sending  because  I  had  no  news  and  no  other  signs  of 
life  to  give.  I  have  been  out  to  the  play  tonight,  and 
laughed  very  pleasantly  at  nonsense  until  now,  when  I 
am  come  home  very  tired  and  sleepy,  and  write  just 
one  word  to  say  good-night.   .    .    . 

They  say  there  is  to  be  another  revolution  here  very 
soon,  but  I  shall  be  across  the  water  before  that  event, 
and  my  old  folks  will  be  here  instead.  You  must  please 
to  tell  JNIrs.  Fanshawe  that  I  am  over  head  and  ears  in 
work,  and  that  I  beg  you  to  kiss  the  tips  of  her  gloves 
for  me.  There  is  another  letter  for  you  begun  some- 
where, about  the  premises,  but  it  was  written  in  so 
gloomy  and  egotistical  a  strain,  that  it  was  best  burnt. 
I  burnt  another  yesterday,  written  to  Lad}^  Ashburton, 
because  it  was  too  pert,  and  like  Major  Pendennis,  talk- 
ing only  about  lords  and  great  people,  in  an  easy  off 
hand  way.  I  think  I  only  write  naturallj^  to  one  per- 
son now,  and  make  points  and  compose  sentences  to 
others.  That  is  why  you  must  be  patient  please,  and  let 
me  go  on  twaddling  and  boring  you. 


IParis,  1850.] 
My  dear  Lady: 

Do  you  see  how  mad  everybody  is  in  the  world?  or  is 
it  not  my  own  insanity?  Yesterday  when  it  became  time 
to  shut  up  my  letter,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  my 
elders,  who  have  got  hold  of  a  mad  old  Indian  woman, 
who  calls  herself  Aline  Gultave  d'origine  Mogole,  who 
is  stark  staring  mad,  and  sees  visions,  works  miracles, 
que  sais-je?  The  old  fool  is  mad  of  sheer  vanity,  and 
yet  fool  as  she  is,  my  people  actually  believe  in  her,  and 


118  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

I  believe  the  old  gentleman  goes  to  her  every  day. 
To-day  I  went  to  see  D'Orsaj^  who  has  made  a  bust 
of  Lamartine,  who,  too,  is  mad  w^ith  vanity.  He  has 
written  some  verses  on  his  bust,  and  asks,  Who  is  this? 
Is  it  a  warrior?  Is  it  a  hero?  Is  it  a  priest?  Is  it  a 
sage?  Is  it  a  tribune  of  the  people?  Is  it  an  Adonis? 
meaning  that  he  is  all  these  things, — verses  so  fatuous 
and  crazy  I  never  saw.  Well,  D'Orsay  says  they  are 
the  finest  verses  that  ever  were  written,  and  imparts  to 
me  a  translation  which  Miss  Power  has  made  of  them; 
and  D'Orsay  believes  in  his  mad  rubbish  of  a  statue, 
which  he  didn't  make;  believes  in  it  in  the  mad  way 
that  madmen  do, — that  it  is  divine,  and  that  he  made 
it;  only  as  you  look  in  his  eyes,  you  see  that  he  doesn't 
quite  believe,  and  when  pressed  hesitates,  and  turns 
awaj^  with  a  howl  of  rage.  D'Orsay  has  fitted  himself 
up  a  charming  atelier  with  arms  and  trophies,  pictures 
and  looking-glasses,  the  tomb  of  Blessington,  the  sword 
and  star  of  Napoleon,  and  a  crucifix  over  his  bed;  and 
here  he  dwells  without  any  doubts  or  remorses,  admir- 
ing himself  in  the  most  horrible  pictures  which  he  has 
painted,  and  the  statues  which  he  gets  done  for  him. 
I  had  been  at  work  till  two,  all  day  before  going  to  see 
him ;  and  thence  went  to  Lady  Normanby,  who  was  very 
pleasant  and  talkative;  and  then  tramping  upon  a  half 
dozen  of  visits  of  duty.  I  had  refused  proffered  ban- 
quets in  order  to  dine  at  home,  but  when  I  got  home  at 
the  dinner  hour,  everybody  was  away,  the  bonne  was  ill 
and  obliged  to  go  to  the  country,  and  parents  and  chil- 
dren were  away  to  dine  with  a  ]Mrs.  ...  a  good 
woman  who  writes  books,  keeps  a  select  boarding-house 
for  young  ladies  who  wish  to  see  Parisian  society,  and 
whom  I  like,  but  cannot  bear,  because  she  has  the  organ 


/;cviJ_£u^    ''•'Vv^  "^AfcC  tj(«4,    ^<''Ku  Kuuxji'  Hu  0»-l  ^'t**)     •   cAl  o»|  ttu  ^trtAUtfu 

U?»i  .  Vt'^i^  ttu  jvu|^.  i^^  [irri^  u  ^^tc^f^e  /6r.Xrc«Lt  ^^On^tuX 


iuui/  HC4in<^i4,  <lt^  (tr>u  m*t  luc  v'(|^  l^f<^  UwU4t  A   ULluw-  kdUi  m<A^ 


tuu*  Cins,tlid  1^  ,    Uj^(  tM.tj  t*^,  A^Hu-  *^^cca5  -L  ktuO  ^  Ud^  ^^^r 


A^Jti    i    ^ 


1  eUnU    \kcMh'  I  jUtt  i^.  Uu   t^  '<«^  *-  Vui^  ecuuX^i  ^  <^'W 

or(ti  r'^  <M  l^^ftat</   vCu/  itu*Cj  ill:,  h:  Jci  iut  <-  fi***^  tWt-  *|i*u,  lu*4. 

-^^M  ^u  iiA  Itu  it\nc-  dt^i.  Y^M4d  -  aixA,  QirA  Men  <«4t  <j<r<i>t|  i«<»y  tfi^ct, 
UUL  t  (U^*<U/(ttt.  iw  UMi^  .t  .^(t«^  ,  <Uut  *aiu  CAJUsA.  QW  U<-(««*e  f 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  119 

of  admiration  too  strongly.  Papa  was  king,  mamma 
was  queen,  in  this  company,  I  a  sort  of  foreign  emperor 
with  the  princesses  my  daughters.  By  Jove,  it  was 
intolerably  painful ;  and  I  must  go  to  her  soiree  to-mor- 
row night  too,  and  drag  about  in  this  confounded  little 
Pedlington.  Yesterday  night,— I  am  afraid  it  was  the 
first  day  of  the  week,— I  dined  with  ISlorton,  and  met 
no  less  than  four  tables  of  English  I  knew,  and  went  to 
the  play.  There  was  a  little  girl  acting,  who  made  one's 
heart  ache;— the  joke  of  the  piece  is,  the  child,  who 
looks  about  three,  is  taken  by  the  servants  to  a  casino, 
is  carried  off  for  an  hour  by  some  dragoons,  and  comes 
back,  having  learned  to  smoke,  to  dance  slang  dances, 
and  sing  slang  songs.  Poor  little  rogue,  she  sung  one 
of  her  songs,  from  an  actor's  arms ;  a  wicked  song,  in  a 
sweet  little  innocent  voice.  She  will  be  bought  and  sold 
within  three  years  from  this  time,  and  won't  be  playing 
at  wickedness  any  more.  I  shall  shut  up  my  desk  and 
say  God  bless  all  the  little  girls  that  you  and  I  love, 
and  their  parents.    God  bless  you,  dear  lady. 

I  have  got  a  very  amusing  book,  the  Tatler  news- 
paper of  1709;  and  that  shall  be  my  soporific  I  hope. 
I  have  been  advancing  in  Blue  Beard,  but  must  give 
it  up,  it  is  too  dreadfully  cynical  and  wicked.  It  is  in 
blank  verse  and  all  a  diabolical  sneer.  Depend  upon  it. 
Helps  is  right. 

Wednesday.  If  I  didn't  write  yesterday  it  was  be- 
cause I  was  wickedly  employed.  I  was  gambling  until 
two  o'clock  this  morning,  playing  a  game  called  lans- 
quenet which  is  very  good  gambling;  and  I  left  off,  as 
I  had  begun,  very  thankful  not  to  carry  away  any 
body's  money  or  leave  behind  any  of  my  own;  but  it 
was  curious  to  watch  the  tempers  of  the  various  play- 


120  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

ers,  the  meanness  of  one,  the  flurry  and  excitement  of 
another,  the  difference  of  the  same  man  winning  and 
losing;  all  which  I  got,  besides  a  good  dinner  and  a 
headache  this  morning.  Annie  and  Minnie  and  my 
mother,  came  to  see  me  yesterday.  I  don't  think  they 
will  be  so  very  eager  for  Paris  after  three  weeks  here; 
the  simple  habits  of  our  old  people  will  hardly  suit  the 
little  women.  Even  in  my  absence  in  America,  I  don't 
quite  like  leaving  them  altogether  here;  I  wonder  if  an 
amiable  family,  as  is  very  kind  to  me,  will  give  them 
hospitality  for  a  month?  I  was  writing  Blue  Beard  all 
day;  very  sardonic  and  amusing  to  do,  but  I  doubt 
whether  it  will  be  pleasant  to  read  or  hear,  or  even 
whether  it  is  right  to  go  on  with  this  wicked  vein;  and 
also,  I  must  tell  j^ou  that  a  story  is  biling  up  in  my 
interior,  in  which  there  shall  appear  some  very  good, 
lofty  and  generous  people ;  perhaps  a  story  without  any 
villains  in  it  would  be  good,  wouldn't  it? 

Thursday. — Thanks  for  your  letter  madame.  If  I 
tell  you  my  plans  and  my  small  gossip,  I  don't  bore 
you  do  I?  You  listen  to  them  so  kindly  at  home,  that 
I've  got  the  habit,  you  see.  Why  don't  you  write  a 
little  handwriting,  and  send  me  yours?  This  place 
begins  to  be  as  bad  as  London  in  the  season;  there  are 
dinners  and  routs  for  every  day  and  night.  Last  night 
I  went  to  dine  at  home,  with  houilli  boeuf  and  ordinaire, 
and  bad  ordinaire  too;  but  the  dinner  was  just  as  good 
as  a  better  one,  and  afterwards  I  went  with  my  mother 
to  a  soiree,  where  I  had  to  face  fifty  people  of  whom  I 
didn't  know  one;  and  being  there,  was  introduced  to 
other  soiree  givers,  be  hanged  to  them.  And  there  I  left 
my  ma,  and  went  off  to  Madame  Gudin's  the  painter's 
wife,  where  really  there  was  a  beautiful  ball;  and  all 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  121 

the  world,  all  the  English  world  that  is ;  and  to-night  it 
is  the  President's  ball,  if  you  please,  and  tomorrow,  and 
the  next  day,  and  the  next,  more  gaieties.  It  was  queer 
to  see  poor  old  Castlereagh  in  a  dark  room,  keeping 
aloof  from  the  dancing  and  the  gaiety,  and  having  his 
thoughts  fixed  on  kingdom  come,  and  Bennett  confes- 
sor and  martja*;  while  Lady  Castlereagh,  who  led  him 
into  his  devotional  state,  was  enjoying  the  music  and 
the  gay  company,  as  cheerfully  as  the  most  mundane 
person  present.  The  French  people  all  talk  to  me  about 
Ponche^when  I  am  introduced  to  them, which  wounds  my 
vanity,  which  is  wholesome  very  likely.  Among  the  nota- 
bilities was  Vicomte  D'Arlincourt,  a  mad  old  romance 
writer,  on  whom  I  amused  myself  by  pouring  the  most 
tremendous  compliments  I  could  invent.  He  said,  j'ai  vu 
VEcosse;  mais  Valter  Scott  ny  etait  'plus,  hclas!  I  said, 
vous  y  etiez,  Vicomte,  c  etait  hien  assez  d'un— on  which 
the  old  boy  said  I  possessed  French  admirably,  and 
knew  to  speak  the  prettiest  things  in  the  prettiest  man- 
ner. I  wish  you  could  see  him,  I  wish  you  could  see  the 
world  here.  I  wish  you  and  ]Mr.  were  coming  to  the 
play  with  me  tonight,  to  a  regular  melodrama,  far  away 
on  the  Boulevard,  and  a  quiet  little  snug  dinner  au  Ban- 
quet d'Anacreon.  The  Banquet  d'Anacreon  is  a  dingy 
little  restaurant  on  the  boulevard  where  all  the  plays 
are  acted,  and  they  tell  great  things  of  a  piece  called 
Paillasse  in  which  Le  JNIaitre  performs;  nous  verrons, 
IMadame,  nous  verrons.  But  with  all  this  racket  and 
gaiety,  do  you  understand  that  a  gentleman  feels  very 
lonely?  I  swear  I  had  sooner  have  a  pipe  and  a  gin 
and  water  soiree  with  somebodj^,  than  the  best  Presi- 
dent's orgeat.  I  go  to  my  cousins  for  half  an  hour 
almost  every  day;  you'd  like  them  better  than  poor 


122  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

Mary  whom  you  won't  be  able  to  stand,  at  least  if  she 
talk  to  you  about  her  bodily  state  as  she  talks  to  me. 
What  else  shall  I  say  in  this  stupid  letter?  I've  not 
seen  any  children  as  pretty  as  Magdalene,  that's  all. 
I  have  told  Annie  to  write  to  you  and  I  am  glad  Mrs. 
Fan  is  going  to  stay;  and  I  hear  that  several  papers 
have  reproduced  the  thunder  and  small  beer  articles ;  ^ 
and  I  thank  you  for  your  letter;  and  pray  the  best 
prayers  I  am  worth  for  you,  and  your  husband,  and 
child,  my  dear  lady. 

W.  M.  T. 

Tuesday  [23r^  April  1850] 
Your  Sunday's  letter  only  came  in  this  morning,  I 
am  sorry  to  see  my  dear  lady  writes  tristely,  but  I  would 
rather  you  would  write  sorrowfully  if  you  feel  so  than 
sham  gaiety  or  light-heartedness.  What's  the  good  of 
a  brother  to  you,  if  you  can't  tell  him  things?  If  I  am 
dismal  don't  I  give  you  the  benefit  of  the  dumps?  Ah! 
I  should  like  to  be  with  you  for  an  hour  or  two  and  see 
if  you  are  changed  and  oldened,  in  this  immense  time 
that  you  have  been  away.  But  business  and  pleasure 
keep  me  here  nailed.  I  have  an  awful  week  of  festivi- 
ties before  me;  today  Shakespeare's  birthday  at  the 
Garrick  Club,  dinner  and  speech.  Lunch,  Madame 
Lionel  Rothschild's;  ball,  Lady  Waldegrave's ;  she 
gives  the  finest  balls  in  London,  and  I  have  never  seen 
one  yet.  Tomorrow,  of  five  invitations  to  dinner,  the 
first  is  Mr.  Marshall,  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's  eve- 
ning party.  Lady  Emily  Dundas'  ditto.  Thursday, 
Sir  Anthony  Rothschild.  Friday,  the  domestic  affec- 
tions.     Saturday,    Sir   Robert   Peel.      Sunday,    Lord 

^  Thackeray's  reply  to  a  criticism  in  the  Times. 


'^  i^^u-l^oatv. 


Drawing  by  Thackeray  in  Mrs.  Brookfleld's  possession  (perhaps  Lady  Castlereagh ; 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  123 

Lansdowne's.  Isn't  it  curious  to  think— it  was  striking 
my  great  mind  yesterday,  as  Annie  was  sorting  the 
cards  in  the  chimney-glass,— that  there  are  people  who 
would  give  their  ears,  or  half  their  income  to  go  to  these 
fine  places?  I  was  riding  with  an  Old  Bailey  harrister, 
yesterday  in  the  Park,  and  his  pretty  wife  {on  les 
aiment  jolies,  Madame).  He  apologised  for  knowing 
people  who  lived  in  Brunswick  Square,  and  thought  to 
prove  his  gentility  by  calling  it  that  demiied  place. 

The  good  dinner  on  Friday  was  very  pleasant  and 
quiet  with  old  acquaintances,  the  ladies,  ]M.  P.'s  wives, 
took  me  aside  and  asked  confidentially  about  the  fash- 
ionable world  in  which  it  is  supposed,  I  believe,  that  I 
live  entirely  now;  and  the  wonder  is  that  people  don't 
hate  me  more  than  they  do.  I  tried  to  explain  that  I 
was  still  a  man,  and  that  among  the  ladies  of  fashion, 
a  lady  could  but  be  a  lady,  and  no  better  nor  no  worser. 
Are  there  any  better  ladies  than  you  and  Pincushion? 
Annie  has  found  out  that  quality  in  the  two  of  you, 
with  her  generous  instincts.  I  had  a  delightful  morning 
with  her  on  Sunday,  when  she  read  me  the  Deserted 
Village,  and  we  talked  about  it.  I  couldn't  have  talked 
with  her  so,  with  anybody  else,  except  perhaps  you,  in 
the  room.  Saturday!  what  did  I  do?  I  went  to  Punch 
and  afterwards  to  a  play,  to  see  a  piece  of  the  Lady  of 
Lyons  performed,  by  a  Mr.  Anderson.  Before  that  to 
the  Water-Colour  Society,  which  was  choke-full  of 
bishops  and  other  big-wigs,  and  among  them  Sir  Rob- 
ert Peel  elaborately  gracious,— conversation  with  Lady 
Peel,  about  2000  people  looking  on.  Bows,  grins, 
grimaces  on  both  sides,  followed  by  an  invitation  to 
dinner  next  Saturday.  The  next  person  I  shook  hands 
with  after  Sir  Robert  Peel,  was— who  do  you  think? 


124  LETTERS   OF    THACKERAY 

JNIrs.  Rhodes  of  the  Back  Kitchen;  I  thought  of  you 
that  very  instant,  and  to  think  of  you,  dear  lady,  is  to 
bless  you. 

*^  4t  ^  4it 

#^  'T*  'V*  'I* 

After,  in  going  home  from  the  Berrys,  where  was  a 
great  assembly  of  polite  persons,  Lady  Morley,  whom 
you  love,  (we  laughed  and  cracked  away  so  that  it 
would  have  made  you  angry)  my  dear  Elliot,  and 
Perry,  Lord  Lansdowne,  Carlyle,  ever  so  many  more. 
Oh!  stop,  at  the  Water  Colours  on  Saturday,  Mr.  Hal- 
lam  asked  me  to  dinner.  He  and  Lord  Mohun  and  Miss 
Julia  went  and  admired  a  picture,  O !  such  a  spoony  pic- 
ture. Sunday  I  went  to  Hampstead  with  the  infants, 
and  dined  at  the  Crowes';  I  went  to  Higgins',  a  very 
pleasant  little  party ;  sorry  his  reverence  could  not  come. 
And  then,  which  is  I  believe  Monday,  I  was  alarmed  at 
not  getting  my  manuscript  back;  I  drew  wood  blocks 
all  day,  rode  in  the  Park  for  three  hours  without  call- 
ing or  visiting  anywhere ;  came  home  to  dinner,  went  to 
the  Berrys's  and  am  back  again  at  twelve,  to  say  G.  B.  Y. 

[1850] 

Cambridge. 
]Madam  : 

I  have  only  had  one  opportunity  of  saying  how  do  you 

do  to-day,  on  the  envelope  of  a  letter  which  you  will  have 

received  from  another,  and  even  more  intimate  friend 

W.  H.  B.    This  is  to  inform  you  that  I  am  so  utterly  and 

dreadfully  miserable  now  he  has  just  gone  off  at  one 

o'clock  to  Norwich  by  the  horrid  mail,  that  I  think  I 

can't  bear  this  place  beyond  tomorrow  and  must  come 

back  again. 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  125 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  breakfast  at  Dr.  Henry 
Maine's  and  two  well-bred  young  gents  of  the  Univer- 
sity, and  broiled  fowls  and  mushrooms,  just  as  we  re- 
member them  200  years  ago.     .     .     . 

I  have  had  the  meanness  not  to  take  a  private  room 
and  write  in  consequence  in  the  Coffee  Apartment  in  a 
great  state  of  disquiet.  Young  under-graduates  are 
eating  supper,  chattering  is  going  on  incessantly.  I 
w^onder  whether  William  is  safe  in  the  train,  or  will  he 
come  back  in  two  minutes,  too  late  for  the  conveyance. 
Yes,  here  he  comes  actually — no,  it  is  only  the  waiter 
with  a  fresh  supply  of  bitter  beer  for  the  young  gents. 
Well,  we  brexfested  with  ]Mr.  and  ]Mrs.  ^Nlaine,  and  I 
thought  him  a  most  kind,  gentle,  and  lovable  sort  of 
man,  so  to  speak,  and  liked  her  artlessness  and  simplicity. 
( Note  that  this  is  the  same  horrid  ink  of  last  night,  which 
will  blot.)  And  then  we  went  to  fetch  walks  over  the 
ground,  forgotten,  and  yet  somehow  well  remembered. 
William  says  he  is  going  to  bring  you  down  here,  and  you 
will  like  it  and  be  very  happy.     .     .     . 

Just  now  William,  I  was  going  to  write  Villiani,  but  I 
knew  you  M^ouldn't  like  it,  says,  "  She  is  dining  at  Lady 
Monteagle's,"  so  I  said  "  Let  us  drink  her  health,"  and 
we  did,  in  a  mixture  of  ale  and  soda  water,  very  good. 
There  was  a  bagman  asleep  in  the  room,  and  we  drank 
your  health,  and  both  of  us  said,  "  God  bless  her,"  I  think 
this  is  the  chief  part  of  my  transactions  during  the 
day.  ...  I  think  I  said  we  walked  about  in  haunts 
once  familiar.  We  went  to  the  Union  where  we  read 
the  papers,  then  drove  to  the  river  where  we  saw  the 
young  fellows  in  the  boats,  then  amidst  the  College 
groves  and  cetera,  and  peeped  into  various  courts  and 
halls,  and  were  not  unamused,  but  bitterly  melancho- 


126  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY 

lious,  though  I  must  say  Wilham  complimented  me  on 
my  healthy  appearance,  and  he  for  his  part,  looked  un- 
commonly well. 

I  went  then  to  see  my  relations,  old  Dr.  Thackeray  75 
years  of  age,  perfectly  healthy,  handsome,  stupid  and 
happy,  and  he  isn't  a  bit  changed  in  twenty  years,  nor 
is  his  wife,  strange  to  say.  I  told  him  he  looked  like  my 
grandfather,  his  uncle,  on  which  he  said,  "  Your  grand- 
father was  by  no  means  the  handsomest  of  the  Thack- 
eray s,"  and  so  I  suppose  he  prides  himself  on  his  per- 
sonal beauty.  At  four,  we  went  to  dine  with  Don 
Thompson  in  Hall,  where  the  thing  to  me  most  striking 
was  the if  j^ou  please,  the  smell  of  the  dinner,  ex- 
actly like  what  I  remember  afore-time.  Savoury  odours 
of  youth  borne  across  I  don't  know  what  streams  and 
deserts,  struggles,  passions,  poverties,  hopes,  hopeless 
loves  and  useless  loves  of  twenty  years !  There  is  a  sen- 
timent suddenly  worked  out  of  a  number  of  veal  and 
mutton  joints,  which  surprises  me  just  as  much  as  it  as- 
tonishes you,  but  the  best  or  worst  of  being  used  to  the 
pen  is,  that  one  chatters  with  it  as  with  the  tongue  to  cer- 
tain persons,  and  all  things  blurt  out  for  good  or  for  bad. 
You  know  how  to  take  the  good  parts  generously  and  to 
forget  the  bad,  dear  kind  lady.     .     .     . 

Then  we  went  to  Jenny  Lind's  concert,  for  which  a 
gentleman  here  gave  us  tickets,  and  at  the  end  of  the  first 
act  we  agreed  to  come  away.  It  struck  me  as  atrociously 
stupid.  I  was  thinking  of  something  else  the  whole  time 
she  was  jugulating  away,  and  O!  I  was  so  glad  to  get  to 
the  end  and  have  a  cigar,  and  I  wanted  so  to  go  away 
with  Mr.  Williams,  for  I  feel  entirely  out  of  place  in 
this  town.  This  seems  to  me  to  be  spoken  all  in  a  breath, 
and  has  been  written  without  a  full  stop.    Does  it  not 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY  127 

strike  you  as  entirely  frantic  and  queer?    Well,  I  wish  I 
were  back. 

I  am  going  out  to  breakfast  to  see  some  of  the  gallant 
young  blades  of  the  University,  and  tonight,  if  I  last 
until  then,  to  the  Union  to  hear  a  debate.  What  a  queer 
thing  it  is.  I  think  WilHam  is  a  little  disappointed  that  I 
have  not  been  made  enough  a  lion  of,  whereas  my  timid 
nature  trembles  before  such  honours,  and  my  vanity 
would  be  to  go  through  life  as  a  gentleman— as  a  ^lajor 
Pendennis— you  have  hit  it.  I  believe  I  never  do  think 
about  my  public  character,  and  certainly  didn't  see  the 
gyps,  waiters  and  under-graduates  whispering  in  hall,  as 
your  William  did,  or  thought  he  did.  He  was  quite 
happy  in  some  dreary  rooms  in  College,  where  I  should 
have  perished  of  ennuis — thus  are  we  constituted.  An 
old  hook-nosed  clergyman  has  just  come  into  the  CoiFee- 
room,  and  is  looking  over  my  shoulder  I  think,  and  has 
put  a  stop  to  the  sentence  beginning  "  tlius  are  we  con- 
stituted "  &c. 

Jenny  Lind  made  £400  by  her  concert  last  night  and 
has  given  £100  to  the  hospital.  This  seems  rather  pom- 
pous sort  of  piety,  it  would  be  better  to  charge  people 
less  than  31/6  for  tickets,  and  omit  the  charity  to 
the  poor.  But  you  see  people  are  never  satisfied  (the 
hook-nosed  clergyman  has  just  addressed  a  remark) 
only  I  pitied  my  cousins  the  INIiss  Thackerays  last 
night,  who  were  longing  to  go  and  couldn't,  because 
tickets  for  four  or  five  of  them  in  the  second  rows, 
would  have  cost  as  many  guineas,  and  their  father  could 
not  afford  any  such  sum.  .  .  .  Present  my  best 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Fanshawe.  If  you  see  Mrs. 
Elliot  remember  me  to  her  most  kindly,  and  now  to 
breakfast. 


128  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

Written  to  us,  when  we  were  at  Cambridge.     [1850.] 

Wednesday,  Midnight. 

I  have  made  an  awful  smash  at  the  Literary  Fund  and 
have  tumbled  into  'Evins  knows  where;— It  was  a  tre- 
mendous exhibition  of  imbecility.  Good  night.  I  hope 
you  2  are  sound  asleep.  Why  isn't  there  somebody  that 
I  could  go  and  smoke  a  pipe  to? 

Bon  Soir 

But  O !  what  a  smash  I  have  made ! 

I  am  talking  quite  loud  out  to  myself  at  the  Garrick 
sentences  I  intended  to  have  uttered:  but  they  wouldn't 
come  in  time. 

After  the  fatal  night  of  the  Literary  Fund  disaster, 
when  I  came  home  to  bed  (breaking  out  into  exclama- 
tions in  the  cab,  and  letting  off  madly,  parts  of  the 
speech  which  wouldn't  explode  at  the  proper  time)  I 
found  the  house  lighted  up,  and  the  poor  old  mother 
waiting  to  hear  the  result  of  the  day.  —  So  I  told  her  that 
I  was  utterly  beaten  and  had  made  a  fool  of  myself, 
upon  which  with  a  sort  of  cry  she  said  "  No  you  didn't, 
old  man," — and  it  appears  that  she  had  been  behind  a 
pillar  in  the  gallery  all  the  time  and  heard  the  speeches ; 
and  as  for  mine  she  thinks  it  was  beautiful.  So  you  see, 
if  there's  no  pleasing  everybody,  yet  some  people  are 
easily  enough  satisfied.  The  children  came  down  in  the 
morning  and  told  me  about  my  beautiful  speech  which 
Granny  had  heard.  She  got  up  early  and  told  them  the 
story  about  it,  you  may  be  sure;  her  story,  which  is  not 
the  true  one,  but  like  what  women's  stories  are. 

I  have  a  faint  glimmering  notion  of  Sir  Charles 
Hedges  having  made  his  appearance  somewhere  in  the 
middle  of  the  speech,  but  of  what  was  said  I  haven't  the 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  129 

smallest  idea.  The  discomfiture  will  make  a  good  chap- 
ter for  Pen.  It  is  thus  we  make  fleche  de  tout  hois;  and  I, 
I  suppose  every  single  circumstance  which  occurs  to  pain 
or  please  me  henceforth,  will  go  into  print  somehow  or 
the  other,  so  take  care,  if  you  please,  to  be  very  well  be- 
haved and  kind  to  me  or  else  you  may  come  in  for  a 
savage  chapter  in  the  \tvy  next  number. 

As  soon  as  I  rallied  from  the  abominable  headache 
w^hich  the  Free  INIasons  tavern  always  gives,  I  went  out 
to  see  ladies  who  are  quite  like  sisters  to  me,  they  are  so 
kind,  lively  and  cheerful.  Old  Lady  JNIorley  was  there 
and  we  had  a  jolly  lunch,  and  afterwards  one  of  these 
ladies  told  me  by  whom  she  sat  at  Lansdowne  House, 
and  what  they  talked  about  and  how  pleased,  she,  my 
friend  was.  She  is  a  kind  generous  soul  and  I  love  her 
sincerely. 

After  the  luncheon  (for  this  is  wrote  on  Saturday,  for 
all  yesterday  I  was  so  busy  from  nine  till  five,  when  my 
horse  was  brought  and  I  took  a  ride  and  it  was  too  late 

for  the  post)  I  went  to  see ,  that  friend  of  my  youth 

whom  I  used  to  think  20  years  ago  the  most  fascinating, 
accomplished,  witty  and  delightful  of  men.  I  found  an 
old  man  in  a  room  smelling  of  brandy  and  water  at  5 

o'clock  at  ,  quite  the  same  man  that  I  remember, 

only  grown  coarser  and  stale  somehow,  like  a  piece  of 
goods  that  has  been  hanging  up  in  a  shop  window.  He 
has  had  15  years  of  a  vulgar  wife,  much  solitude,  very 
much  brandy  and  water  I  should  think,  and  a  depressing 
profession ;  for  what  can  be  more  depressing  than  a  long 
course  of  hypocrisy  to  a  man  of  no  small  sense  of  hu- 
mour? It  was  a  painful  meeting.  We  tried  to  talk  un- 
reservedly, and  as  I  looked  at  his  face  I  remembered  the 
fellow  I  was  so  fond  of.— He  asked  me  if  I  still  con- 


130  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

sorted  with  any  Cambridge  men;  and  so  I  mentioned 
Kinglake  and  one  Brookfield  of  whom  I  saw  a  good 
deal.  He  was  surprised  at  this,  as  he  heard  Brookfield 
was  so  violent  a  Puseyite  as  to  be  just  on  the  point  of 
going  to  Rome.  He  can't  walk,  having  paralysis  in  his 
legs,  but  he  preaches  every  Sunday,  he  says,  being 
hoisted  into  his  pulpit  before  service  and  waiting  there 
whilst  his  curate  reads  down  below. 

I  think  he  has  very  likely  repented:  he  spoke  of  his 
preaching  seriously  and  without  affectation :  perhaps  he 
has  got  to  be  sincere  at  last  after  a  long  dark  lonely  life. 
He  showed  me  his  daughter  of  15,  a  pretty  girl  with  a 
shrewish  face  and  bad  manners.  The  wife  did  not  show. 
He  must  have  been  glad  too  when  I  went  away  and  I 
dare  say  is  more  scornful  about  me  than  I  about  him. 
I  used  to  worship  him  for  about  6  months;  and  now  he 
points  a  moral  and  adorns  a  tale  such  as  it  is  in  Penden- 

nis.     He  lives  in  the  Duke  of  park  at  and 

wanted  me  to  come  down  and  see  him,  and  go  to  the 
Abbey  he  said,  where  the  Duke  would  be  so  glad  to  have 
me. — But  I  declined  this  treat — O  fie  for  shame!    How 

proud  we  get!    Poor  old  Harry !  and  this  battered 

vulgar  man  was  my  idol  of  youth!  My  dear  old  Fitz- 
gerald is  always  right  about  men,  and  said  from  the  first 
that  this  was  a  bad  one  and  a  sham.  You  see,  some  folks 
have  a  knack  of  setting  up  for  themselves  idols  to  wor- 
ship. 

Don't  be  flying  off  in  one  of  your  fits  of  passion,  I 
don't  mean  you. 

Then  I  went  to  dine  at 's,  where  were  his  wife  and 

sister.  I  don't  think  so  much  of  the  wife,  though  she  is 
pretty  and  clever — but  Becky-fied  somehow,  and  too 
much  of  a  petite  maitresse,    I  suppose  a  deal  of  flattery 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  131 

has  been  poured  into  her  ears,  and  numberless  men  have 
dangled  round  that  pretty  light  little  creature.  The 
sister  with  her  bright  eyes  was  very  nice  though,  and  I 
passed  an  evening  in  great  delectation  till  midnight 
drawing  nonsense  pictures  for  these  ladies,  who  have 
both  plenty  of  relish  for  nonsense.  Yesterday,  after 
working  all  day,  and  then  going  to  the  London  Library 
to  audit  accounts— doesn't  that  sound  grand?— and 
taking  a  ride,  I  came  home  to  dinner,  fell  asleep  as  usual 
afterwards,  slept  for  12  hours,  and  am  now  going  to 
attack  IVIonsieur  Pendennis,  Here  is  the  journal.  Now 
Ma'm  have  you  been  amused?  Is  King's  very  fine?  is 
Trinity  better?  did  you  have  a  nice  T  at  Mrs.  Maine's? 
When  are  you  coming  back?  Lord  and  Lady  Castle- 
reagh  came  here  yesterday,  and  I  want  you  to  come  back, 
so  that  I  may  give  them  an  entertainment; — for  I  told 
my  lady  that  I  wanted  to  show  her  that  other  lady  men- 
tioned in  the  Punch  article  as  mending  her  husband's 
chest  of  drawers— but  I  said  waistcoat.  — Sir  Bulwer 
Lytton  called  yesterday. 

To-night  I  am  going  to  the  bar  dinner,  and  shall 
probably  make  another  speech.  — I  don't  mind  about  fail- 
ing there,  so  I  shall  do  pretty  well.  I  rode  by  Portman 
Street  on  Thursday.  Please  to  write  and  let  me  know 
whether  you'll  dine  on  the  28th  or  the  30th,  or  can  you 
give  me  both  those  days  to  choose  from.  And  so  God 
bless  both  on  you. 

(Signed  3  hands  clasped.) 


132  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

Fragment  of  a  letter 
About  1850 

I  could  not  come  yesterday  evening  to  ring  at  the 
door;  for  I  did  not  return  until  8  o'clock  from  the  visit 
to  the  emigrant  ship  at  Gravesend,  and  then  I  had  to 
work  until  12,  and  poHsh  off  Pendennis.  There  are 
always  four  or  five  hours  work  when  it  is  over,  and  four 
or  five  more  would  do  it  all  the  good  in  the  world,  and  a 
second,  or  third  reading. 

That  emigrant  business  was  very  solemn  and  affect- 
ing; it  was  with  difficulty  I  could  keep  my  spectacles  dry 
—amongst  the  people  taking  leave,  the  families  of  grave- 
looking  parents  and  unconscious  children,  and  the  bustle 
and  incidents  of  departure.  The  cabins  in  one  of  the 
ships  had  only  just  been  fitted  up,  and  no  sooner  done 
than  a  child  was  that  instant  born  in  one  of  them,  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  old  world  as  it  were,  which  it  leaves  for 
quite  a  new  country,  home,  empire.  You  shake  hands 
with  one  or  two  of  these  people  and  pat  the  yellow  heads 
of  the  children  (there  was  a  Newcastle  woman  with 
eight  of  them,  who  interested  me  a  good  deal)  and  say 
"  God  bless  you,  shake  hands,  you  and  I  shall  never  meet 
again  in  this  world,  go  and  do  your  work  across  the  four 
months  of  ocean,  and  God  prosper  it."  The  ship  drops 
down  the  river,  it  gives  us  three  great  cheers  as  we  come 
away  in  the  steamer  with  heavy  hearts  rather.  In  three 
hours  more  Mr.  W.  M.  T.  is  hard  at  work  at  Punch  office ; 
Mr.  Parson  Quikette  has  got  to  his  night  school  at  St. 
George's  in  the  East;  that  beautiful  gracious  princess 
of  a  Mrs.  Herbert  is  dressing  herself  up  in  diamonds 
and  rubies  very  likely,  to  go  out  into  the  world,  or  is  she 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY         133 

up  stairs  in  the  niirser}^  reading  a  good  book  over  the 
child's  cradle?  Oh!  enormous,  various,  changing,  won- 
derful, solemn  world?  Admirable  providence  of  God 
that  creates  such  an  infinitude  of  men,  it  makes  one  very 
grave,  and  full  of  love  and  awe.  I  was  thinking  about 
this  yesterday  morning  before  six,  when  I  was  writing 
the  last  paragraph  of  Pendennis  in  bed,  and  the  sun 
walked  into  the  room  and  supplied  the  last  paragraph 
with  an  allusion  about  you,  and  which  I  think  means  a 
benediction  upon  William,  and  your  child,  and  my  dear 
lady.    God  keep  you. 

As  I  am  waiting  to  see  ^Mrs.  Bullar,  I  find  an  old  re- 
view with  an  advertisement  in  it,  containing  a  great  part 
of  an  article  I  wrote  about  Fielding,  in  1840  in  the 
Times.  Perhaps  ^Madame  will  like  to  see  it,  and  INIr. 
Williams.  My  wife  was  just  sickening  at  that  moment; 
I  wrote  it  at  ^Margate,  wiiere  I  had  taken  her,  and  used 
to  walk  out  three  miles  to  a  little  bowling-green,  and 
"write  there  in  an  arbour — coming  home  and  wondering 
what  was  the  melancholy  oppressing  the  poor  little 
woman.  The  Times  gave  me  five  guineas  for  the  article. 
I  recollect  I  thought  it  rather  shabby  pay,  and  twelve 
days  after  it  appeared  in  the  paper,  my  poor  little  wife's 
malady  showed  itself. 

How  queer  it  is  to  be  carried  back  all  of  a  sudden  to 
that  time,  and  all  that  belonged  to  it,  and  read  this  article 
over;  doesn't  the  apology  for  Fielding  read  like  an 
apology  for  somebody  else  too?  God  help  us,  what  a 
deal  of  cares,  and  pleasures,  and  struggles,  and  happiness 
I  have  had  since  that  day  in  the  little  sunshiny  arbour, 
where,  with  scarcely  any  money  in  my  pocket,  and  two 
little  children,   (Minnie  was  a  baby  two  months  old)   I 


134  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

was  writing  this  notice  about  Fielding.  Grief,  Love, 
Fame,  if  you  like. — I  have  had  no  little  of  all  since  then 
( I  don't  mean  to  take  the  fame  for  more  than  it's  worth, 
or  brag  about  it  with  any  peculiar  elation.) 

JNIy  dear  IMadam:  On  calling  on  our  mutual  friend 
Mrs.  Procter,  yesterday,  she  was  polite  enough  to  offer 
me  a  seat  in  her  box  at  Drury  Lane  theatre  this  evening, 
when  Her  Majesty  honours  the  play-house  with  a  visit 
for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Macready.  Shakespeare  is  always 
amusing,  and  I  am  told  the  aspect  of  the  beef -eaters  at 
the  royal  box  is  very  imposing.  I  mentioned  to  Mrs. 
Procter  that  I  had  myself  witnessed  many  entertain- 
ments of  this  nature,  and  did  not  very  much  desire  to  be 
present,  but  intimated  to  her  that  I  had  a  friend  who  I 
believed  was  most  anxious  to  witness  Mr.  Macready's 
performance  in  the  august  jnesence  of  the  Sovereign. 
I  mentioned  the  name  of  your  husband,  and  found  that 
she  had  already ,  with  her  usual  politeness,  dispatched  a 
card  to  that  gentleman,  whom  I  shall  therefore  have  the 
happiness  of  meeting  this  evening.  But  perhaps  you  are 
aware,  that  a  chosen  few  are  admitted  behind  the  scenes 
of  the  theatre,  where,  when  the  curtain  rises,  they  appear 
behind  the  performers,  and  with  loyal  hearts  join  in  the 
national  anthem,  at  the  very  feet  of  their  Queen.  My 
reverend  friend  has  an  elegant  voice,  perhaps  he  would 
like  to  lift  it  up  in  a  chorus,  which  though  performed  in 
the  temple  of  Thespis,  I  cannot  but  consider  to  be  in  the 
nature  of  a  hymn.  I  send  therefore  a  ticket  of  which  I 
beg  his  polite  acceptance,  and  am  dear  Madam,  with  the 
utmost  respect, 

Your  very  faithful  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  135 

P.  S.  I  was  a  little  late  for  the  magnificent  entertain- 
ment of  my  titled  friends  Sir  William  and  Lady  JNIoles- 
worth,  on  Saturday,  and  indeed  the  first  course  had  been 
removed,  when  I  made  my  appearance.  The  banquet  was 
sumptuous  in  the  extreme,  and  the  company  of  the  most 
select  order.  I  had  the  happiness  of  sitting  next  to  Clar- 
ence Bulbul  Esq.,  M.P.,  and  opposite  was  the  most 
noble,  the  Marquis  of  Steyne.  Fancy  my  happiness  in 
the  company  of  persons  so  distinguished.  A  delightful 
concert  followed  the  dinner,  and  the  whole  concluded 
with  a  sumptuous  supper,  nor  did  the  party  separate 
until  a  late  hour. 


Written  about  the  time  when  we  were  at  Park  Cottage 

Southampton 

[1850] 

As  the  Sunday  Post  is  open  again,  I  write  you  a  word 
of  good-bye — and  send  you  a  little  commission.  Please 
to  give  Dr.  Bullar's  Infirmary  30/  for  me  and  the  chil- 
dren,—or  put  that  sum  into  his  money-box  at  Prospect 
Place.  I  tried  my  very  hardest  to  compose  my  mind  and 
ballad  in  the  railway  but  it  was  no  use.  I  start  for  Ant- 
werp at  9  tomorrow  morning ;  shall  be  there  at  6  or  so  on 
Monday;  and  sleep  probably  at  Cologne  or  Bonn;  and 
if  anybody  chooses  to  write  to  me  at  Frankfort,  Poste 
Restante,  I  should  get  the  letter  I  daresay.  —  Shall  I  send 
you  Lady  Kicklebury's  Tour  ?  I  will  if  it  is  at  all  funny 
or  pleasant,  but  I  doubt  if  it  will  do  for  letters  well.  Oh 
how  glum  and  dingy  the  city  looks,  and  smoky  and 
dreary!  Yesterday  as  I  walking  in  the  woods  with  Mrs. 
Procter  looking  at  the  columns  of  the  fir  trees,  I  thought 


136  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

of  the  pillars  here,  and  said  "  This  place  is  almost  as 
lonely  as  the  Reform  Club  in  September."  But  the 
difference  to  the  feeling  mind  is  very  great  betwixt  the 
two  solitudes,  and  for  one  I  envy  the  birds  in  the  Hamp- 
shire boughs — what  rubbish! 

Fragment. 

We  have  been  to  Shoolbred's  to  buy  a  gown  for 
granny.  We  have  been  to  Madame  Victorine's  to  order 
new  dresses  for  ourselves.  We  have  been  to  call  at  JNIrs. 
Elliot's,  Mrs.  Prinsep's,  Lady  Rothschild's,  Mr.  H. 
Hallam's,  ]\Irs.  James's,  Mrs.  Pollock's,  Lady  Pollock's, 
and  the  young  women  are  gone  home,  and  I  am  expect- 
ing Mr.  William  to  dine  here.  I  have  ordered  such  a 
nice  dinner;  we  are  to  go  to  the  Sartoris'  afterwards. 
Will  you  go  there  next  Friday?  I  think  I  shall  go 
somewhere  on  Sunday,  Monday  and  Tuesday,  I  have  no 
engagements  for  those  three  days,  isn't  it  wonderful? 
But  I'll  be  magnanimous  and  not  bother  my  dear  lady's 
friends. 

I  saw  Harry  Hallam,  he  and  the  faithful  Maine  were 
reading  hard.  JNIaine  wanted  me  to  fix  to  go  to  his  house 
on  Friday  the  4th  INIay,  but  I  wouldn't.  Harry  w^as 
very  pleasant,  jovial,  and  gracious.  He  has  been  speak- 
ing well  of  me  to  the  Elliots'.  The  artful  dodger,  he 
knew  they  would  tell  me  again.  What  kind  women  they 
are !  They  say  they  had  a  very  nice  letter  from  you ;  I 
didn't  have  a  nice  letter  from  you ;  and  as  for  your  letter 
to  my  mamma,  which  I  read,  O !  ma'am,  how  frightened 
you  were  when  you  wrote  it,  and  what  for  were  you  in  a 
fright?  You  have  brains,  imagination,  wit;  how  con- 
ceited it  is  to  be  afraid,  then. 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  137 

I  saw  my  lovely  Virginia  to-day,  she  was  as  kind  and 
merry  as  ever.  The  children  seemed  to  stare  to  hear  me 
laugh  and  talk,  I  never  do  at  home.     .     .     . 

Mr.  Inspector, 

INIr.  Kenyon  having  called  upon  me  to  fix  a  day  when 
you  may  have  the  honour  of  meeting  me  at  his  house,  I 
have  proposed  Christmas  Eve,  and  am  with  compliments 
to  the  geehrte  Frau  Schulinspektorin 

Yours 

W.  M.  T. 

White  Lion,  Bristol, 

Monday  1850. 
My  dear  Lady: 

With  the  gold  pen  there's  no  knowing  how  and  what  I 
write,  the  handwriting  is  quite  different  and  it  seems  as 
if  one  was  speaking  with  a  different  voice.  Fancy  a  man 
stepping  up  to  speak  to  you  on  stilts  and  trying  to  make 
a  bow,  or  pajdng  you  compliments  through  a  Punch's 
whistle;— not  that  I  ever  do  pay  you  a  compliment,  you 
know,  but  I  can't  or  I  shan't  be  able  for  a  line  or  two  to 
approach  you  natural^,  and  must  skate  along  over  this 
shiny  paper. 

I  went  to  Clevedon  and  saw  the  last  rites  performed 
for  poor  dear  Harry.  — ^  I  went  from  here,  and  waited 
at  Candy's  till  the  time  of  the  funeral,  in  such  cold 
weather!  Candy's  shop  was  full  of  ceaseless  customers 
all  the  time— there  was  a  little  boy  bujang  candles  and  an 
old  woman  with  the  toothache — and  at  last  the  moment 
drew  nigh  and  Tinling  in  a  scarf  and  hat -band  driving 
himself  down  from  the  Court,  passed  the  shop,  and  I 

1  H.  F.  Hallam  died  24th  Oct.  1850. 


138  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

went  down  to  the  church.  It  looked  very  tranquil  and 
well  ordained,  and  I  had  half  an  hour  there  before  the 
procession  came  in  view.  Those  ceremonies  over  a 
corpse— the  immortal  soul  of  a  man  being  in  the  keeping 
of  God,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  all  undertakers,— al- 
ways appear  to  me  shocking  rather  than  solemn, — and 
the  horses  and  plumes  give  me  pain.— The  awful  mo- 
ment was  when  the  dear  old  father— the  coffin  being 
lowered  into  the  vault  where  so  much  of  his  aiFection  and 
tenderest  love  lies  buried,  went  down  into  the  cave  and 
gave  the  coffin  a  last  kiss;— there  was  no  standing  that 
last  most  affecting  touch  of  Nature.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Hallam  who  had  been  up-stairs  came  down  after  an 
hour  or  two;  and  I  was  so  sorry  that  I  had  decided  on 
coming  back  to  Bristol,  when  he  asked  me  whether  I 
wasn't  going  to  stay?  Why  didn't  I?  I  had  written 
and  proposed  myself  to  Dean  Elliot  in  the  morning  per- 
sonally, and  I  find  he  is  out  of  town  on  returning  here 
in  the  coldest  night  to  the  most  discomf  ortable  inn,  writ- 
ing paper,  gold  pen.  .  .  .  Duty,  Duty  is  the  word, 
and  I  hope  and  pray  you  will  do  it  cheerfully. 

Now  it  is  to  comfort  and  help  the  weak-hearted,  and 
so  may  your  comforter  and  helper  raise  you  up  when  you 
fall.  I  wonder  whether  what  I  said  to  you  yesterday 
was  true?  I  know  what  I  think  about  the  famous  chap- 
ter of  St.  Paul  that  we  heard  to-daj^ — one  glory  of  the 
sun,  and  another  of  the  moon,  and  one  flesh  of  birds  and 
one  of  fish  and  so  forth, — premature  definitions — yearn- 
ings and  strivings  of  a  great  heart  after  the  truth.  Ah 
me — when  shall  we  reach  the  truth?  How  can  we  with 
imperfect  organs?  but  we  can  get  nearer  and  nearer,  or 
at  least  eliminate  falsehood. 

To-morrow  then  for  Sir  John  Cam  Hobhouse.    Write 


Memorial  Tatlets  to  Arthur  and  Henrv  Hallam  in  Clevedon  Church 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  139 

to  me  there,  dear  sister,  and  tell  me  you  are  cheerful  and 
that  your  baby  is  well,  and  that  you  love  your  affection- 
ate old  brother.  When  will  vou  see  the  children?  to- 
morrow  I  hope.  And  now  I  will  go  to  bed  and  pray  as 
best  I  can  for  you  and  yours  and  your  nieces  and  your 
faithful  old  Makepeace. 

G.  B.  Y. 


1851. 

I  have  no  news  to  give  for  these  two  days,  but  I  have 
been  busy  and  done  nothing.  Virtue  doesn't  agree  with 
me  well,  and  a  very  little  domestic  roseleaf  rumpled  puts 
me  off  my  work  for  the  day.  Yesterday  it  was,  I  forget 
what;  to-day  it  Ims  been  the  same  reason;  and  lo!  Satur- 
day Cometh  and  nothing  is  done.  .  .  .  We  have 
been  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  this  fine  day  and  amused 
ourselves  in  finding  likenesses  to  our  friends  in  many  of 
the  animals.  Thank  Evns!  both  of  the  girls  have  plenty 
of  fun  and  humour;  your's  ought  to  have,  from  both 
sides  of  the  house, — and  a  deal  of  good  besides,  if  she  do 
but  possess  a  mixture  of  William's  disposition  and  yours. 
He  will  be  immensely  tender  over  the  child  when  no- 
body's by,  I  am  sure  of  that.  Xo  father  knows  for  a  few 
months  what  it  is,  but  they  learn  afterwards.  It  strikes 
me  I  have  made  these  statements  before. 

We  had  a  dull  dinner  at  Lady 's,  a  party  of 

chiefly;  and  O!  such  a  pretty  one,  blue  eyes,  gold  hair, 
alabaster  shoulders  and  such  a  splendid  display  of  them. 
Venables  was  there,  very  shy  and  grand-looking— how 
kind  that  man  has  always  been  to  me!— and  a  IMr. 
Simeon  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  an  Oxford  man,  who  won 


140  LETTERS   OP   THACKERAY 

my  heart  by  praising  certain  parts  of  Vanity  Fair  which 
people  won't  like.  Carlyle  glowered  in  in  the  evening; 
and  a  man  who  said  a  good  thing.  Speaking  of  a  stupid 
place  at  the  sea-side,  Sandwich  I  think,  somebody  said 
"  Can't  you  have  any  fun  there? "  "  O !  yes,"  Corry  said, 
"  but  you  must  take  it  with  you."  A  nice  speech  I  think, 
not  only  witty  but  indicating  a  gay  cheerful  heart.  I 
intend  to  try  after  that ;  xt^e  intend  to  try  after  that ;  and 
by  action  and  so  forth  get  out  of  that  morbid  dissatisfied 
condition.  Now  I  am  going  to  dress  to  dine  with  Lord 
Holland ;  my  servant  comes  in  to  tell  me  it  is  time.  He 
is  a  caj^ital  man,  an  attentive,  alert,  silent,  plate-cleaning, 
intelligent  fellow;  I  hope  we  shall  go  on  well  together, 
and  that  I  shall  be  able  to  afford  him.     .     .     . 

Boz  is  capital  this  month,  some  very  neat  pretty  nat- 
ural writing  indeed,  better  than  somebody  else's  again. 
By  Jove,  he  is  a  clever  fellow,  and  somebody  else  must 
and  shall  do  better.  Quiet,  pleasant  dinner  at  Lord 
Holland's;  leg  of  mutton  and  that  sort  of  thing,  home 
to  bed  at  10.30,  and  to-morrow  to  work  really  and  truly. 
Let  me  hear,  please,  that  you  are  going  on  well  and  I 
sliall  go  on  all  the  better. 


April  29th,  1851. 
Madam  and  dear  Lady: 

Will  you  have  a  little  letter  to-day,  or  a  long  letter 

to-morrow?  for  there's  only  half  an  hour  to  post  time. — 

A  little  letter  to-day? — I  don't  wonder  at  poets  being 

selfish,  such  as  Wordsworth  and  Alfred.  — I  have  been 

for  five  days  a  poet,  and  have  thought  or  remembered 

nothing  else  but  myself  and  mj^  rhymes  and  my  measure. 

If  somebody  had  come  to  me  and  said,  "  Mrs.  Brookfield 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY  141 

has  just  had  her  arm  cut  off,"  I  should  have  gone  on 
with,  Queen  of  innumerable  isles,  tidumtidy,  tidumtidy, 
and  not  stirred  from  the  chair.  The  children  and  no- 
body haven't  seen  me  except  at  night;  and  now  though 
the  work  is  just  done,  (I  am  just  returned  from  taking 
it  to  the  Times  office)  I  hardly  see  the  paper  before  me, 
so  utterly  beat,  nervous,  bilious  and  overcome  I  feel;  so 
you  see  you  chose  a  very  bad  day  ma'am  for  a  letter  from 
yours  very  sincerely.  If  you  were  at  Cadogan  Place  I 
would  walk  in,  I  dare  say,  sa}^  God  bless  you,  and  then 
ask  leave  to  go  to  sleep.  Now  you  must  be  thinking  of 
coming  back  to  Pimlico  soon,  for  the  lectures  are  to  be- 
gin on  the  15th.  I  tried  the  great  room  at  Willis's  yes- 
terday^, and  recited  part  of  the  multiplication  table  to  a 
waiter  at  the  opposite  end,  so  as  to  try  the  voice.  He 
said  he  could  hear  perfectly,  and.  I  daresay  he  could,  but 
the  thoughts  somehow  swell  and  amplify  with  that  high- 
pitched  voice  and  elaborate  distinctness.  As  I  perceive 
how  poets  become  selfish,  I  see  how  orators  become  hum- 
bugs and  selfish  in  their  way  too,  absorbed  in  that  selfish 
pursuit  and  turning  of  periods.  It  is  curious  to  take 
these  dips  into  a  life  new  to  me  as  yet,  and  try  it  and  see 
how  I  like  it,  isn't  it?  Ah  me,  idleness  is  best;  that  is, 
quiet  and  repose  of  mind  and  somebodj^  to  love  and  be 
fond  of,  and  nil  admirari  in  fine.  The  gentlemen  of  the 
G.  tell  me,  and  another  auditor  from  the  Macready  din- 
ner, that  my  stjde  of  oratory  was  conspicuous  for  con- 
summate ease  and  impudence,  I,  all  the  while  feeling  in 
so  terrible  a  panic  that  I  scarcely  knew  at  the  time  what 
I  was  uttering,  and  didn't  know  at  all  when  I  sat  down. 
—  This  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you  about  self,  and  ten  days 
which  have  passed  away  like  a  fever.  Why,  if  we  were 
to  let  the  poetic  cock  turn,  and  run,  there's  no  end  of  it  I 


142  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

think.     Would  you  like  me  now  to  become  a  great — 
fiddlededee  ?  no  more  egotisms  Mr.  M.  if  you  please. 

I  should  have  liked  to  see  your  master  on  Sunday,  but 
how  could  I?  and  Lord!  I  had  such  a  headache,  and 
Dicky  Doyle  came,  and  we  went  to  Soj^er's  Symposium 
and  the  Crystal  Palace  together,  where  the  great  calm 
leviathan  steam  engines  and  machines  lying  alongside 
like  great  line  of  battle  ships,  did  wonderfully  move  me ; 
and  I  think  the  English  compartment  do  beat  the  rest 
entirely,  and  that  let  alone  our  engines,  which  be  incom- 
parable, our  painters,  artificers,  makers  of  busts  and 
statues,  do  deserve  to  compare  with  the  best  foreign. 
This  I  am  sure  will  interest  and  please  JNIiss  Brookfield 
very  much.  God  bless  that  dear  little  lady.  I  would 
give  two-pence  to  hear  her  say,  "  more  tea."  Oh,  by  the 
way  can  I  have  that  young  woman  of  whom  Rossiter 
spoke?  JNIary  goes  away  at  the  end  of  the  week  and  a 
cook  is  coming,  and  I  want  a  maid,  but  have  had  no 
leisure  to  think  of  one  until  now,  when  my  natural  af- 
fairs and  aiFections  are  beginning  to  return  to  my  mind, 
and  when  I  am  my  dear  lady's  friend  and  servant, 

W.  M.  T. 


May,  1851. 
Amie: 

I  write  you  a  little  word  after  that  Exhibition  from 
home.     .     .     . 

The  ode  has  had  a  great  success.  What  do  you  mean 
by  "an  ode  as  she  calls  it?"  Vive  dieu,  Madame,  it  is 
either  an  ode  or  nix  (the  German  for  nothing.)  And  as 
for  the  Exhibition,  which  don't  interest  me  at  all  so  much, 
it  was  a  noble,  awful,  great  love-inspiring,  gooseflesh- 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  143 

bringing  sight.  I  got  a  good  place  by  good  luck  and 
saw  the  whole  affair,  of  which  no  particular  item  is  won- 
derful ;  but  the  general  effect,  the  multitude,  the  riches, 
the  peace,  the  splendour,  the  security,  the  sunshine,  great 
to  see,— much  grander  than  a  coronation.  The  vastest 
and  sublimest  popular  festival  that  the  world  has  ever 
witnessed  before.  What  can  one  say  about  it  but  com- 
monplace? There  was  a  Chinese  with  a  face  like  a  pan- 
tomime-mask and  shoes,  who  went  up  and  kissed  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  much  to  the  old  boy's  surprise. 

And  the  Queen  looked  not  uninteresting;  and  Prince 
Albert  grave,  handsome,  and  princely ;  and  the  Prince  of 
Wales  and  the  Princess  Royal  are  nice  children, — very 
eager  to  talk  and  observe  they  seemed.  And  while  the 
Ai'chbishop  was  saying  his  prayer,  beginning  with  Pater 
Noster,  which  sounded,  in  that  wonderful  throng,  inex- 
pressibly sweet  and  awful,  three  Romish  Priests  were 
staring  about  them,  with  opera  glasses;  which  made  me 
feel  as  angry  as  the  Jews  who  stoned  Stephen. 

I  think  this  is  all  I  have  to  say.  I  am  very  tired  and 
the  day  not  over,  for  I  have  promised  the  children  to  take 
them  to  the  play,  in  recompense  for  their  disappointment 
in  not  getting  to  the  Exhibition,  which  they  had  hopes  of 
seeing  through  my  friend  Cole.     .     .     . 

*  *  *  *  * 


[1851.] 


Reform  Club. 


My  Dear  Sir  or  Madam  : 

Pace  vohiscum;  ora  pro  nobis.  If  you  go  to  the  lecture 
to-day,  will  you  have  the  fly?  It  will  be  only  ever  so 
little  out  of  the  fly's  way  to  come  for  you:  and  will  you 


144.  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

fetch  me  from  this  place  please,  and  will  you  send  an 
answer  by  coachman  to  say  whether  you  will  come  or  no  ? 
I  had  a  gentle  ride  in  the  Park,  and  was  all  but  com- 
ing to  15,  but  I  thought  I  wouldn't  get  oiF  my  oss  at  any 
place  save  that  where  I  am  going  to  work,  namely  this 
here,  until  lecture  time.  Doyle  will  be  in  waiting  at  4| 
o'clock  to  let  the  stray  sheep  into  the  fold. 
V  I  am,  yours 

Makepeace, 
Bishop  of  Mealy  Potatoes. 

My  Dear  Lady  : 

I  have  been  at  work  until  now,  eight  o'clock.  The 
house  is  very  pleasant,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  G.  bent  on  being 
so,  the  dinners  splendacious,  and  what  do  you  think  I 
did  yesterday?  Please  to  tell  Spring  Rice  this  with  my 
best  regards,  tomorrow.  I  thought  over  the  confounded 
Erminia  matter  in  the  railroad,  and  wrote  instantly  on 
arriving  here,  a  letter  of  contrition  and  aj^ology  to 
Henry  Taylor  for  having  made,  what  I  see  now,  was  a 
flippant  and  oiFensive  allusion  to  Mrs.  Taylor.  I  am 
glad  I  have  done  it.  I  am  glad  that  so  many  people 
whom  I  have  been  thinking  bigoted  and  unfair  and  un- 
just towards  me,  have  been  right,  and  that  I  have  been 
wrong,  and  my  mind  is  an  immense  deal  easier. 


My  Dear  :  Will  you,  I  mean  Mr.  Brookfield, 

like  to  come  to  Mrs.  S's  sworry  to-night?  There  will  be 
very  pretty  music,  and  yesterday  when  I  met  her,  I  said 
I  wanted  her  very  much  to  go  and  sing  to  a  sick  lady  of 
my  acquaintance  and  she  said  she  would  with  the  great- 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  145 

est  pleasure  in  the  world ;  and  I  think  it  would  be  right 
if  ]Mr.  Brookfield  should  call  upon  her,  and  I  am  disen- 
gaged on  Wednesday  next  either  for  evening  or  dinner, 
and  ^Irs.  Sartoris'  number  is  99  Eaton  Place,  and  I  am. 

Your  obedient  servant 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

My  Dear  Vieux  : 

I  have  told  the  mouche  to  call  for  me  at  the  Punch 
office  at  eight,  and  to  come  round  by  Portman  Street 
first.  If  you  like  you  can  come  and  we  can  go  to  a  little 
play,  a  little  something,  to  Hampstead  even  if  you  were 
up  to  it.  If  you'd  like  best  to  sit  at  home,  I'd  like  to 
smoke  a  pipe  with  you ;  if  you'd  like  best  to  sit  at  home 
alone,  I  can  go  about  my  own  business,  but  don't  mind 
choosing  which  way  of  the  three  you  prefer,  and 

Believe  me,  hallis  yours 

W.  M.  T. 

My  dear  sick  Lady  : 

I  send  you  1,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  MSS  just  to  amuse  you 
for  ten  minutes.  Annie's  I  am  sure  will;  isn't  it  good? 
the  perilous  passage,  and  the  wanting  to  see  me.  The 
letters  are  to  ladies  who  bother  me  about  the  Bath  and 
Wash-house  fete;  and  the  verses,  marked  2,  were  written 
in  a  moment  of  depression— I  wonder  whether  you  will 
like  No.  2? 

Virginia  wasn't  at  dinner  after  all,  yesterda3^  Wasn't 
that  a  judgment  on  somebody?  She  stopped  to  take 
care  of  a  sick  sister  she  has ;  but  I  made  myself  as  happy 
as  circumstances  admitted,  and  drank  your  health  in  a 
glass  of  ]Mr.  Prinsep's  excellent  claret;  one  can't  drink 
mere  port  this  weather. 


146  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

When  you  have  read  all  the  little  papers,  please  put 
them  back,  and  send  them  by  the  printer's  devil  to  their 
owner.  It  has  just  crossed  my  mind  that  you  may  think 
it  very  conceited,  my  sending  you  notes  to  read,  ad- 
dressed to  grand  ladies,  as  if  I  was  proud  of  my  clever- 
ness in  writing  them,  and  of  being  in  a  state  of  corre- 
spondence with  such  grand  persons.  But  I  don't  want  to 
show  off,  only  to  try  and  give  you  ever  so  little  amuse- 
ment, and  I  don't  choose  to  think  about  what  other 
people  choose  to  think  about. 

Yours,  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

My  dear  Madam  : 

I  am  always  thinking  of  Mrs.  C —  W —  H—  with  a 
feeling  of  regard,  so  intense  and  incomprehensible,  that 
feeble  words  cannot  give  it  utterance,  and  I  know  that 
only  a  strong  struggle  with  my  interior  and  a  Principle 
which  I  may  say  is  based  on  the  eternal  data  of  perennial 
reminiscences,  can  keep  this  fluttering  heart  tolerably 
easy  and  secure.  But  what,  what,  is  JNIemory?  Memory 
without  Hope  is  but  a  negative  idiosyncracy,  and  Hope 
without  Memory,  a  plant  that  has  no  root.  Life  has 
many  such,  but  still  I  feel  that  they  are  too  few;  death 
may  remove  or  in  some  way  modify  their  poignancj'^; 
the  future  alone  can  reconcile  them  with  the  irrevocable 
fiat  of  yesterday,  and  tomorrow  I  have  little  doubt  will 
laugh  them  into  melancholy  scorn.  Deem  not  that  I 
speak  lightly,  or  that  beneath  the  mask  of  satire,  any 
doubt,  any  darkness,  any  pleasure  even,  or  foreboding, 
can  mingle  with  the  depth  of  my  truthfulness.  Passion 
is  but  a  hypocrite  and  a  monitor,  however  barefaced. 

Action,  febrile  continuous  action,  should  be  the  pole 


V 

<s 

I 

o 
til 

B 

I 

d 

.:<; 

o 

H 

>v 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  147 

star  of  our  desolate  being.  If  this  is  not  reality,  I  know 
not  what  is.  Mrs.  C.  W.  H.  may  not  understand  me,  but 
you  will. 

Fragment. 

.  .  .  .  And  is  W.  Bullar  going  to  work  upon  you 
with  his  "simple  mysticism?"  I  don't  know  about  the 
Unseen  World;  the  use  of  the  seen  World  is  the  right 
thing  I'm  sure!— it  is  just  as  much  God's  world  and 
Creation  as  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  with  all  the  angels. 
How  will  you  make  yourself  most  happy  in  it?  how 
secure  at  least  the  greatest  amount  of  happiness  com- 
patible with  your  condition?  by  despising  to-day,  and 
looking  up  cloudward  ?  Pish.  Let  us  turn  God's  to-day 
to  its  best  use,  as  well  as  any  other  part  of  the  time  He 
gives  us.  When  I  am  on  a  cloud  a-singing,  or  a  pot 
boiling— I  will  do  my  best,  and  if  you  are  ill,  you  can 
have  consolations;  if  j^ou  have  disappointments,  you 
can  invent  fresh  sources  of  hope  and  pleasure.  I'm  glad 
you  saw  the  Crowes,  and  that  they  gave  you  pleasure; — 
and  that  noble  poetry  of  Alfred's  gives  you  pleasure 
(I'm  happy  to  say  ma'am  I've  said  the  very  same  thing 
in  prose  that  you  like — the  very  same  words  almost). 
The  bounties  of  the  Father  I  believe  to  be  countless  and 
inexhaustible  for  most  of  us  here  in  life;  Love  the 
greatest.  Art  (which  is  an  exquisite  and  admiring  sense 
of  nature)  the  next. — By  Jove!  I'll  admire,  if  I  can,  the 
wing  of  a  Cock-sparrow  as  much  as  the  pinion  of  an 
Archangel ;  and  adore  God  the  Father  of  the  earth,  first ; 
waiting  for  the  completion  of  my  senses,  and  the  fulfil- 
ment of  His  intentions  towards  me  afterwards,  when 
this  scene  closes  over  us.    So  when  Bullar  turns  up  his  i  to 


148  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

the  ceiling,  I'll  look  straight  at  your  dear  kind  face  and 
thank  God  for  knowing  that,  my  dear;  and  though  my 
nose  is  a  broken  pitcher,  yet,  Lo  and  behold  there's  a 
Well  gushing  over  with  kindness  in  my  heart  where  my 
dear  lady  may  come  and  drink.  God  bless  you, — and 
William  and  little  Magdalene. 


Fragment. 

I  have  had  the  politest  offer  made  me  to  go  to  Scot- 
land, to  Edinburgh,  where  there  is  a  meeting  of  the 
savants — just  the  thing  for  me,  you  know;  thence  to  the 
Highlands  with  Edward  Ellice ;  thence  to  Miss  Prince's 
friend,  the  Duchess,  who  is  the  most  jovial,  venerable, 
pleasant,  and  I  should  think  too,  a  little  wicked,  old  lady. 
And  I  suppose  I  could  be  franked  through  the  kingdom 
from  one  grandee  to  another;  but  it  don't  seem  much 
pleasure  or  rest,  does  it?  Best  clothes  every  day,  and 
supporting  conversation  over  three  courses  at  dinner; 
London  over  again.  And  a  month  of  solitary  idleness 
and  wandering  would  be  better  than  that,  w^ouldn't  it? 
On  the  other  hand  it  is  a  thing  to  do  and  a  sight  to  see, 
sure  to  be  useful  professionally,  some  day  or  other,  and 
to  come  in  in  some  story  unborn  as  yet. 

I  did  the  doggerel  verses  which  were  running  in  my 
head  when  I  last  wrote  you,  and  they  are  very  lively. 
You'd  saj^  the  author  must  have  been  in  the  height  of 
good  spirits; — no,  you  wouldn't,  knowing  his  glum  habit 
and  dismal  views  of  life  generally. 

We  are  going  on  a  little  holiday  excursion  down  the 
river  to  Blackwall,  to  board  the  American  Packet-ship, 
the  Southampton,  I  told  you  of  before ;  and  shake  hands 
with  the  jolly  captain,  and  see  him  out  of  the  dock.    Then 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  149 

the  young  ladies  are  going  to  Don  Giovanni  in  the  even- 
ing, and  I  to  dine  with  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  but  I  want 
quiet.     .     .     . 

Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  of  O 'Gorman  Ma- 
hon,  bidding  some  ladies  to  beware  of  me  for  I  could 
talk  a  bird  off  a  tree?  I  was  rather  pleased  at  the  ex- 
pression, but  O' Gorman  last  Saturday,  took  me  away 
out  of  Lord  Palmerston's  arms,  with  whom  I  was  talk- 
ing, and  said  that  some  ladies  had  informed  him,  that 
when  he  made  use  of  that  expression,  my  countenance 
assumed  a  look  of  the  most  diabolical  rage  and  passion, 
and  that  I  abused  him,  O 'Gorman  in  the  most  savage 
manner.  In  vain  I  remonstrated,  he'll  beheve  it  to  the 
end  of  his  life. 

• 

1851. 

Good  Friday. 
Yesterday  evening  in  the  bitter  blast  of  the  breeze  of 
March,  a  Cavalier,  whose  fingers  were  so  numbed  that 
he  scarce  could  hold  the  rein  of  his  good  steed,  might  have 
been  perceived  at  a  door  in  Portman  Street  in  converse 
with  a  footman  in  dark  green  livery,  and  whose  buttons 
bore  the  cognizance  of  the  Well-known  house  of  Brook- 
field.  Clouded  with  care  and  anxiety  at  first  the  horse- 
man's countenance  (a  stalwart  and  grey-haired  man  he 
was,  by  our  lady,  and  his  face  bore  the  marks  of  wounds 
received  doubtless  in  early  encounters)  presently  as- 
sumed a  more  cheerful  aspect  when  he  heard  from  the 
curly-pated  servitor  whom  he  interrogated  that  his 
Lady's  health  was  better.  "  Gramercy  "  he  of  the  steed 
exclaimed  "so  that  she  mend  I  am  happy!  happier  still 
when  I  may  behold  her !  Carry  my  duty.  Fellow,  to  my 
Mistress'  attendant,  and  tell  her  that  Sir  Titmarsh  hath 


150  LETTERS   OF   THCAKERAY 

been  at  her  gate."  It  closed  upon  him.  The  horse-man 
turned  his  charger's  head  home-ward,  and  soon  was  lost 
to  view  in  the  now  lonely  park. 

I've  been  to  church  already  with  the  young  ones— had 
a  fine  ride  in  the  country  yesterday — am  going  to  work 
directly  this  note  goes  off —and  am  exceedingly  well  and 
jolly  in  health.  I  think  this  is  all  my  news.  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Elliot  has  been  very  bad  but  is  mending.  I  dined 
there  last  night.  She  was  on  the  sofa,  and  I  thought 
about  her  kind  face  coming  in  to  me  (along  side  of  an- 
other kind-face)  when  I  was  ill.  What  numbers  of 
good  folks  there  are  in  the  world!  Fred.  Elliot  would 
do  anything,  I  believe,  to  help  me  to  a  place.  Old  Miss 
Berry  is  very  kind  too,  nothing  can  be  kinder;  but  I  will 
go  back  to  my  poetry  for  Punch,  such  as  it  is,  and  say 
good-bye  to  my  dear  lady  and  Miss  Brookfield  and  Mr. 

W.  M.  T. 

[1851.] 
Mesdames: 

You  mustn't  trust  the  honest  Scotsman,  who  is  such  a 
frantic  admirer  that  nothing  less  than  a  thousand  people 
will  content  him.  I  had  a  hundred  subscribers  and  two 
hundred  other  people  for  the  first  lecture.  Isn't  that 
handsome?  It  is  such  a  good  audience  that  I  begin  to 
reflect  about  going  to  America  so  soon.  Why,  if  so 
much  money  is  to  be  made  in  this  empire,  not  go  through 
with  the  business  and  get  what  is  to  be  had?  The  Mel- 
gunds  I  saw  at  the  sermon,  and  the  Edinburgh  big-wigs 
in  plenty.  The  M's  live  over  the  way,  I  go  to  see  them 
directly  and  thank  them.  And  I  like  to  tell  you  of  my 
good  luck,  and  am  always  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


From  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Elliot,  in  the  possession  of  her  sister.  Miss  Kate  Perry 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  151 

15  July,  1851. 

The  happy  f  amity  has  scarce  had  a  moment's  rest  since 
we  left  the  St.  Katherine's  wharf,  and  this  is  wrote  on 

board  the  steamer in  the  Rhine,  with  ever  so  many 

fine  views  at  my  back, — Minnie  on  t'other  side  writing 
to  her  grandmother,  and  Annie  reading  her  father's 
works  in  the  Tauchnitz  edition.  It  has  not  been  a  verv 
brilliant  journey  hitherto,  but  the  little  ones  are  satisfied, 
that's  the  main  point.  The  packet  to  Antwerp  was 
awful,  a  storm,  and  a  jib  carried  away,  and  a  hundred 
women  being  sick  on  the  cabin  floor  all  night.  The  chil- 
dren very  unwell,  but  behaving  excellently;  their  pa, 
tranquil  under  a  table  and  not  in  the  least  sick,  for  a 
wonder. 

We  passed  the  day,  Friday,  at  Antwerp,  when  I  hope 
his  reverence  came  home  to  you  better.  And  it  was  very 
pleasant  going  about  with  the  children,  walking  and 
lionising.  Yesterday,  we  got  up  at  five  and  rushed  to 
Cologne ;  today  we  rose  at  four,  and  rushed  to  Mayence. 
We  shall  sleep  at  Wiesbaden  or  at  Frankfurt  tonight, 
as  the  fancy  siezes  me;  and  shall  get  on  to  Heidelberg, 
then  to  Basle,  then  to  Berne,  &  so  on  to  Como,  Milan, 
Venice,  if  it  don't  cost  too  much  money.  I  suppose  j^ou 
are  going  to  church  at  this  time,  and  know  the  bells  of 
Knightsbridge  are  tolling.  If  I  don't  go  to  church  my- 
self (but  I  do,  this  instant,  opposite  the  young  ones)  I 
know  who  will  say  a  God  bless  me.    .    .    . 

I  bought  Kicklehurys,  Rebecca  and  Rowena,  and  the 
Rhine  Story  and  read  them  through  with  immense  pleas- 
ure. Do  you  know  I  think  all  three  Capital,  and  R.  and 
R.  not  only  made  me  laugh  but  the  other  thing.  Here's 
pretty  matter  to  send  a  lady  from  a  tour!    Well,  I  know 


152  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

you  like  to  hear  my  praises  and  I  am  glad  to  send  them 
to  you.  They  are  putting  off  a  flat-bottomed  boat  from 
the  shore— they  are  putting  out  the  tables  for  dinner.  I 
will  lock  up  my  paper  and  finish  my  letter  at  some  future 
halting-place,  and  so  good-bye  dear  lady. 

Wiesbaden.  The  first  minute  to  myself  since  we  came 
awa}^  and  that  in  a  ground  floor  closet,  where  it  has  been 
like  sleeping  in  the  street, — the  whole  house  passing  by 
it.  It  is  the  Hotel  de  la  Rose.  Annie  and  Minnie  are 
put  away  somewhere  in  the  top  of  the  house,  and  this 
minute  at  six  in  the  morning,  on  the  parade,  they  have 
begun  music.  The  drive  hither  last  night  from  the 
steamer  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  which  has  hap- 
pened to  us  yet,  and  a  view  of  the  Rhine  at  Sunset,  seen 
from  a  height,  as  lovely  as  Paradise.  This  was  the  first 
fine  day  we  have  had,  and  the  splendour  of  the  land- 
scape-colours something  marvellous  to  gaze  upon.  If 
Switzerland  is  better  than  this,  we  shall  be  in  a  delirium. 
It  is  afl*ecting  to  see  Annie's  happiness.  My  dear  noble 
creature,  always  magnanimous  and  gentle.  I  sat  with 
the  children  and  talked  with  them  about  their  mother 
last  night.  ...  It  is  my  pleasure  to  tell  them  how  hum- 
ble-minded their  mother  was,  how  humble  minded  you 
are,  my  dear  lady.  They  bid  me  to  the  bath,  I  rise,  I  put 
on  my  scarlet  gownd,  I  go. 

Thursday  morning.  Again  six  o'clock.  Heidelberg. 
After  the  bath  and  the  breakfast  we  discovered  that  we 
were  so  uncomfortable  at  that  most  comfortable  inn  the 
Rose,  without  having  the  least  prospect  of  bettering  our- 
selves, that  we  determined  on  quitting  Wiesbaden, 
though  Mrs.  Stewart  Mackenzie  had  arranged  a  party 
for  ns,  to  see  the  Duke's  garden, — an  earthly  paradise 
according  to  her  account, — and  though  in  the  walk,  a 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  153 

taking  his  waters,  whom  should  I  see,  but  T.  Parr, 
Esquire,  and  I  promised  to  go  and  see  him  and  your  sis- 
ter. But  Dieu  dispose,  and  we  came  off  to  Frankfurt 
and  took  a  carriage  there  for  two  hours  and  a  half  and 
inspected  the  city  and  then  made  for  Heidelberg  which 
we  reached  at  6^,  too  late  for  anvthinff  but  dinner  and  a 
sleep  afterwards,  in  the  noisiest  street  I  ever  slep  in; 
and  there  were  other  causes  for  want  of  rest,  and  so  I 
got  me  up  at  five  and  soothed  myself  with  the  pleasant 
cigar  of  morn. 

My  dear  lady,  the  country  is  very  pretty,  zwischen 
Frankfurt  and  Heidelberg,  especially  some  fantastical 
little  mountains,  the  ISIelibocus  range,  of  queer  shapes, 
starting  out  of  the  plain,  capped  with  darkling  pine 
forests  and  ruined  castles,  covered  with  many  coloured 
crops  and  based  by  peaceful  little  towns  with  old  towers 
and  walls.  And  all  these  things  as  I  behold,  I  wish  that 
somebody's  eyes  could  see  them  likewise;  and  R!  I 
should  like  a  few  days  rest,  and  to  see  nothing  but  a 
shady  wood  and  a  tolerably  stupid  book  to  doze  over. 

We  had  Kingsley  and  his  parents  from  Antwerp;  a 
fine  honest  go-ahead  fellow,  who  charges  a  subject 
heartily,  impetuously,  with  the  greatest  courage  and  sim- 
plicity; but  with  narrow  eyes  {his  are  extraordinarily 
brave,  blue  and  honest),  and  with  little  knowledge  of 
the  world,  I  think.  But  he  is  superior  to  us  worldlings  in 
many  ways,  and  I  wish  I  had  some  of  his  honest  pluck. 
And  so  my  stupid  paper  is  full,  and  I  send  my  love  to 
you  and  yours. 

Thursday,  17th.  [July,  1851.] 
Yesterday  was  a  golden  day,  the  pleasantest  of  the 
journey  as  yet.     The  day  before  we  got  to  Baden- 


154  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

Baden;  and  I  had  a  notion  of  staying,  say  two  or  three 
days,  having  found  an  agreeable  family  acquaintance 
or  two,  Madame  de  Bonneval,  sister  of  Miss  Galway, 
with  whom  we  went  to  the  hippodrome,  &  M.  Mart- 
chenko,  that  nice  Russian  who  gave  me  cigars  and  flat- 
tered me  last  year ;  but  the  weather  beginning  to  be  bad, 
and  the  impure  atmosphere  of  the  pretty,  witty  gam- 
bling place  not  good  for  my  young  ones,  we  came  away 
by  the  Basel  railroad  in  the  first-class,  like  princes.  A 
most  delightful  journey  through  the  delicious  land- 
scape of  plain  and  mountains,  which  seemed  to  Switzify 
themselves  as  we  came  towards  here;  and  the  day's  rest 
here  has  not  been  least  pleasant,  though,  or  perhaps 
because,  it  rained  all  the  morning  and  I  was  glad  to  lie 
on  the  sofa  and  smoke  my  cigar  in  peace.  On  Tuesday 
at  Baden  it  was  pretty.  Having  been  on  duty  for  five 
days,  I  went  out  for  a  solitary  walk,  and  was  finding 
myself  tant  soit  peu  tired  of  my  dear  little  companions ; 
and  met  Madame  de  Bonneval,  who  proposed  a  little 
tea,  and  a  little  society  &c. ;  and  when  I  came  back  to 
the  inn,  there  was  Annie,  with  Minnie  on  her  knees,  and 
telling  her  a  story  with  a  sweet  maternal  kindness  and 
l^atience,  God  bless  her.  This  touched  me  very  much 
and  I  didn't  leave  them  again  till  bedtime,  and  didn't 
go  to  the  rouge-et-noir  and  only  for  half  an  hour  to 
Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Bonneval,— from  whose 
society  I  determined  to  escape  next  day, — and  we 
agreed  it  was  the  pleasantest  day  we  had  had ;  and  Min- 
nie laid  out  the  table  of  the  first  class  carriage  (they  are 
like  little  saloons  and  delightful  to  travel  in)  with  all 
the  contents  of  the  travelling  bag,  books,  o  de  Cologne, 
ink  &c. ;  and  we  had  good  trout  for  supper  at  nine 
o'clock ;  and  today,  at  two,  we  walked  out  and  wandered 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  155 

very  pleasantly  for  two  hours  and  a  half  about  the  town 
and  round  it ;  and  we  are  very  hungry ;  and  we  hope  the 
dinner  bell  will  ring  soon— and  tomorrow  I  am  forty 
years  old,  and  hope  to  find  at  Berne  a  letter  from  my 
dear  lady.  You  see  one's  letters  must  be  stupid,  for 
they  are  written  only  when  I  am  tired  and  just  come 
off  duty ;  but  the  sweet  young  ones'  happiness  is  an  im- 
mense pleasure  to  me,  and  these  calm  sweet  landscapes 
bring  me  calm  and  delight  too;  the  bright  green  pas- 
tures, and  the  soft  flowing  river  (under  my  window 
now)  and  the  purple  pine-covered  mountains,  with  the 
clouds  flickering  round  them— O!  Lord!  how  much  bet- 
ter it  is  than  riding  in  the  Park  and  going  to  dinner  at 
eight  o'clock!  I  wonder  whether  a  residence  in  this 
country  would  ennoble  one's  thoughts  permanently,  and 
get  them  away  from  mean  quarrels,  intrigues,  pleas- 
ures? make  me  write  good  books — turn  poet  perhaps  or 
orator — and  get  out  of  that  business  of  London — in 
which  there  is  one  good  thing  ?  Ah,  one  good  thing,  and 
God  bless  her  always  and  always.  I  see  my  dear  lady 
and  her  little  girl ;  pax  be  with  them.  Is  it  only  a  week 
that  we  are  gone,  it  seems  a  year. 

Berne.  Saturday  19th.  Faucon.—l  must  tell  you 
that  I  asked  at  Heidelberg  at  the  post  only  by  way  of 
a  joke,  and  never  so  much  as  expecting  a  half -penny 
worth  of  letter  from  you;  but  here  I  went  off  to  the 
post  as  sure  as  fate.  Thinks  I,  it  being  my  birthday 
yesterday  there  must  be  a  little  something  waiting  for 
me  at  the  poste  restante,  but  the  deuce  a  bit  of  a  little 
something.  Well  I  hope  you're  quite  well,  and  I'm  sure 
you'd  write  if  something  hadn't  prevented  you,  and  at 
Milan  or  at  Venice  I  hope  for  better  fortune.  We  had 
the  most  delightful  ride  yesterday  from  Basel,  going 


156  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

through  a  country  which  I  suppose  prepares  one  for  the 
splendider  scenery  of  the  Alps;  kind  good-natured  ht- 
tle  mountains,  not  too  awful  to  look  at,  but  encouraging 
in  appearance,  and  leading  us  gradually  up  to  the  enor- 
mities which  we  are  to  contemplate  in  a  day  or  two.  A 
steady  rain  fell  all  day,  but  this,  as  it  only  served  to 
make  other  people  uncomfortable,  (especially  the  six 
Belgian  fellow-travellers  in  the  Bei-wagen,  which 
leaked,  and  in  which  they  must  have  had  a  desperate 
time)  rather  added  to  our  own  pleasure,  snug  in  the 
coupe.  We  have  secured  it  for  tomorrow  to  Lucerne, 
and  today  for  the  first  time  since  our  journey  there's  a 
fine  bright  sun  out,  and  the  sight  we  have  already  had  of 
this  most  picturesque  of  all  towns,  gives  me  a  zest  for 
that  fine  walk  which  we  are  going  to  fetch  presently. 
I  have  made  only  one  sketch  in  this  note ;  best  not  make 
foolish  sketches  of  buildings,  but  look  about  and  see 
the  beautiful  pictures  done  for  you  by  Nature  benefi- 
cent. It  is  almost  the  first  place  I  have  seen  in  Europe 
where  the  women  actually  wear  costumes — in  Rome 
only  the  women  who  get  up  for  the  painters  dress  dif- 
ferently from  other  folks.  Travelling  as  Paterfamilias, 
with  a  daughter  in  each  hand,  I  don't  like  to  speak  to 
our  country  folks ;  but  give  myself  airs,  rather,  and  keep 
off  from  them.  If  I  were  alone  I  should  make  up  to 
everybody.  You  don't  see  things  so  well  a  trois  as  you  do 
alone;  you  are  an  English  gentleman;  you  are  shy  of 
queer-looking  or  queer-speaking  people;  j^ou  are  in 
the  coupe;  you  are  an  earl; — confound  your  impudence, 
if  you  had  £5000  a  year  and  were  Tomparr,  Esq.,  j^ou 
could  not  behave  yourself  more  high  and  mightily.  All! 
I  recollect  ten  years  back,  a  poor  devil  looking  wistfully 
at  the  few  napoleons  in  his  gousset^  and  giving  himself 


0 

o 

O 

a 

o 

(/) 

'd 

a 

<D 
> 

1 

ID 

i; 

r— ) 

Q 

o 

•a 

o 

a 

^ 

o 
o 

41 

^1 

u 

1 

'o 

^ 

*« 

o 

s 

^ 

o 

o 

M 

£ 

Q> 

^ 

■u 

a 

LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  157 

no  airs  at  all.  He  was  a  better  fellow  than  the  one  you 
know  perhaps;  not  that  our  characters  alter,  only  they 
develop  and  our  minds  grow  grey  and  bald,  &c.  I  was 
a  boy  ten  years  ago,  bleating  out  my  simple  cries  in  the 
Great  Hoggarty  diamond.  We  have  seen  many  pretty 
children,  two  especially,  sitting  in  a  little  tub  by  the 
roadside;  but  we  agree  that  there  is  none  so  pretty  as 
baby  Brookfield,  we  wish  for  her  and  for  her  mother, 
I  believe.  This  is  a  brilliant  kind  of  a  tour  isn't  it? 
egotistical  twaddle.  I've  forgot  the  lectures  as  much 
as  if  they  had  never  been  done,  and  my  impression  is 
that  they  were  a  failure.  Come  along  young  ladies, 
we'll  go  a  walk  until  dinner  time,  and  keep  the  remain- 
der of  this  sheet  (sacrificing  the  picture,  as  after  all, 
why  shouldn't  we?  such  a  two-penny  absurd  thing?)  and 
folding  the  sheet  up  in  a  different  way.  So  good  bye 
lady,  and  I  send  you  a  G  and  a  B  and  a  Y. 

Lucerne.  Monday  morning. — We  are  in  love  with 
Berne.  We  agree  that  we  should  like  to  finish  our 
lives  there,  it  is  so  homely,  charming  and  beautiful,  with- 
out knowing  it;  whereas  this  place  gives  itself  the  airs 
of  a  beauty  and  offends  me  somehow.  We  are  in  an  inn 
like  a  town,  bells  begin  at  four  in  the  morning,  two  hours 
ago,  and  at  present  all  the  streets  of  the  hotel  are  alive ; 
we  are  not  going  up  the  Righi;  Y  should  we  go  up  a 
dimmed  mountain  to  see  a  dimmed  map  under  our  feet  ? 
We  are  going  on  to  Milan  pretty  quick.  The  day  after 
tomorrow  we  shall  sail  down  the  Major  lake,  we  hope 
to  Sesto  Calendi  and  so  to  Milan.  I  wonder  whether 
you  have  written  to  me  to  Como?  Well,  I  would  have 
bet  five  to  one  on  a  letter  at  Berne;  but  such  is  life  and 
such  is  woman,  that  the  philosopher  must  not  reckon  on 
either.    And  what  news  would  you  have  sent?  that  the 


158 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 


-r;.i..iiniimLniuiiniiiituKii'»«<'tii/! 


IT 


baby  is  well,  that  you  have  enjoyed  yourself  pretty  well 
at  Sevenoaks? — I  would  give  6^^  to  hear  as  much  as  that. 

Jki  wiud  iuw  iif^^^^loM^adl  \La  %  M^  (( it^  fLi  i|i«Luv^^«<> 

11      _       s 
1*4.  itu  ■jtUAZtflwO  OAt  tfc?» 

Such  is  a  feeble  but  accurate  outline  of  the  view  out  of 
my  window  at  this  moment,  and  all  the  time  I  am  draw- 
ing it,  (you  will  remark  how  pleasantly  the  firs  and  pas- 
tures in  the  foreground  are  indicated,  whereas  I  can- 
not do  anything  with  ink,  being  black,  to  represent  the 
snow  on  the  mountains  behind)  I  am  making  pretty 
dramatic  sketches  in  my  mind  of  misfortune  happening 
to  you, — that  you  are  unwell,  that  you  are  thrown  out 
of  a  carriage,  that  Dr.  Locock  is  in  attendance,  que 
sais-je? 

As  for  my  dear  young  ones  I  am  as  happy  with  them 
as  possible ;  Annie  is  a  fat  lump  of  pure  gold,  the  kind- 
est dearest  creature,  as  well  as  a  wag  of  the  first  water. 
It  is  an  immense  blessing  that  Heaven  has  given  me 
such  an  artless  affectionate  companion.  We  were  look- 
ing at  a  beautiful,  smiling,  innocent  view  at  Berne,  on 
Saturday,  and  she  said,  "  it's  like  Baby  Brookfield." 
There's  for  you!  and  so  it  was  like  innocence,  and 
brightness,  and  &c.  &c.    Oh!  may  she  never  fall  in  love 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  159 

absurdly  and  marry  an  ass!  If  she  will  but  make  her 
father  her  confidant,  I  think  the  donkey  won't  long 
keep  his  ground  in  her  heart.  And  so  the  paper  is  full 
and  must  go  to  England  without  ever  so  much  as  say- 
ing thank  you  for  your  letter.  Good-bye  my  dear  lady, 
good-bye  Miss  Brookfield,  Good-bye  Mr.  Brookfield, 
says 

Your  affectionate, 

W.  M.  T. 

Au  Suisse,  Jul}"  21st. 

[Fragment.]  Paris,  1851. 

A  Story  with  a  Moral. 

Last  night  I  went  to  a  party  at  the  house  of  my 
mother's  friend  Madame  Colemache  (who  introduced 
me  to  Madame  Ancelot  the  authoress,  who  was  dying 
to  see  me,  said  INIadame  Colemache,  only  I  found  on 
talking  to  Madame  Ancelot  that  she  didn't  know  who  I 
was,  and  so  was  no  more  dying  than  the  most  lively  of 
us)  and  coming  down  stairs  with  my  Ma  I  thought  to 
myself,  I  will  go  home  and  have  an  hour's  chat  with  her, 
and  try  and  cheer  and  console  her,  for  her  sad  tragic 
looks  melted  my  heart,  and  always  make  me  think  I  am 
a  cruel  monster ;  and  so  I  was  very  tender  and  sentimen- 
tal and  you  see  caressed  her  filially  as  we  went  down.  It 
was  a  wet  night  and  the  fly  was  waiting,  and  she  was 
just  going  to  step  in— but  there  entered  at  the  house 
door  a  fiddler  with  his  fiddle  under  his  arm,  whom  when 
dear  old  Mater  dolorosa  beheld,  she  said,  "O!  that  is 
Monsieur  un  tel  who  has  come  to  play  a  duo  with  Laure ; 
I  must  go  back  and  hear  him."  And  back  she  went,  and 
all  my  sentimentality  was  gulped  down  and  I  came 


160  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

home  and  sent  the  fly  back  two  miles  for  her,  with 
Jeames  to  escort  her  in  the  rain.  The  Moral  is  that 
women  with  those  melancholy  eyes,  and  sad,  sad  looks 
are  not  always  so  melancholy  as  they  seem;  they  have 
consolations, — amusements,  fiddlers,  &c. 

*  *  MH  ¥lt  * 

I  am  happy,  as  happy  as  I  can  be  here,  which  is  pretty 
well,  though  I  am  bored  daily  and  nightly,  and  drag 
about  sulkily  from  tea  party  to  tea  party.  Last  night 
my  mother  had  her  little  T,  and  they  danced,  and  it  was 
not  at  all  unpleasant  quand  on  y  etait.  I  found  an  old 
school-fellow,  looking  ten  years  younger  than  myself, 
whom  I  remember  older  and  bigger  than  myself  twenty- 
eight  years  ago ;  and  he  had  got  a  charming  young  wife, 
quite  civilized  and  pleasant  to  talk  to,  and  the  young 
ladies  had  their  new  frocks  and  looked  tolerably  respec- 
table, and  exceedingly  happy.  They  are  to  go  to  a 
party  on  Monday,  and  another  on  Wednesday,  and  on 
Thursday  (D.  V)  we  shall  be  on  the  homeward  road 
again. 

I  had  cuddled  myself  with  the  notion  of  having  one 
evening  to  myself,  one  quiet  dinner,  one  quiet  place  at 
the  play ;  but  my  mother  took  my  only  evening  and  gave 
it  to  an  old  lady  whom  I  don't  want  to  see,  and  who 
would  have  done  very  well  without  me, — was  there  ever 
such  a  victim?  I  go  about  from  house  to  house  and 
grumble  everywhere.  I  say  Thursday,  D.  V.,  for  what 
mayn't  happen?  My  poor  cousin  Charlotte  has  a  relapse 
of  rheumatic  fever;  my  Aunt  is  in  a  dreadful  prostra- 
tion and  terror.  "  If  anything  happens  to  Charlotte," 
she  says,  "  I  shall  die,  and  then  what  will  Jane  do?" 

t^r  'T'  1*  *i*  *i* 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  161 

There's  a  kind  of  glum  pleasure,  isn't  there,  in  sitting 
by  sick  beds  and  trying  to  do  one's  best?  I  took  the  old 
G.  P.  to  dinner  at  a  Cafe  yesterday,  before  the  soiree; 
he  is  very  nice  and  kind  and  gentle.     .     .     . 

Well,  on  Wednesday  I  am  going  to  dine  with  the 
Prefet  de  Police,  and  afterwards  to  Madame  Scriva- 
nacks  ball,  where  I  shall  meet,— I,  an  old  fellow  of 
forty— all  the  pretty  actresses  of  Paris.  Let  us  give 
a  loose  to  pleasure.    .    .    . 

Mamma  and  I  went  to  see  the  old  lady  last  night, — 
Lady  Elgin  an  honest,  grim,  big,  clever  old  Scotch 
lady,  well  read  and  good  to  talk  to,  dealing  in  religions 
of  many  denominations,  and  having  established  in  her 
house  as  a  sort  of  director,  Mr.  C.  one  of  the  heads  of 
the  Irvingites  a  clever,  shifty,  sneaking  man.  I  wish  I 
had  had  your  story  of  Manning;  that  would  have  been 
conversation,  but  your  note  didn't  arrive  till  this  morn- 
ing.   Thank  you,  and  I  hope  you  are  very  well.    .    .    . 

I  hope  you  will  like  good  old  Miss  Agnes  Berry ;  I  am 
sure  you  will,  and  shall  be  glad  that  you  belong  to  that 
kind  and  polite  set  of  old  ladies  and  worthy  gentlemen. 
Mr.  Williams  too,  will  approve  of  them,  I  should  think. 
I  don't  know  any  better  company  than  Foley  Wilmot 
and  Poodle  Byng.  Pass  quickly  Sunday,  Monday, 
Tuesday,  Wednesday.  Shall  I  let  Kensington,  with 
ten  beds,  to  an  Exhibition-seeing  party  and  live  alone? 
Will  you  take  a  lodger  who  will  lend  you  a  fly  to  go  to 
the  parties  which  you  will  be  continually  frequenting? 
Ah !  that  would  be  pleasant. 

My  cousin  Charlotte  was  much  better  yesterday, 
thank  God,  and  her  mother  quiet.  I  have  been  visit- 
ing the  sick  here.— one,  two,  three,  every  day.  I  want 
to  begin  to  write  again  very  much;  my  mighty  mind 


162  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

is  tired  of  idleness,  and  ill  employs  the  intervals  of 

W.  M.  T. 


and  I  are  going  out  for  a  little  ride  in  half  an  hour, 


so  that  I  have  plenty  of  time  to  send  a  letter  to  you. 
The  place  here  is  a  neat  little  thing  enough,  small  and 
snug,  with  a  great  train  of  maison  and  not  more  than 
twenty  thousand  acres  about  the  house;  nothing  com- 
pared to  Gulston,  Rumbleberry,  Crumply,  and  most  of 
the  places  to  which  one  is  accustomed,  but  very  well,  you 
understand  me,  for  people  of  a  certain  rank  of  life. 
One  can  be  happy  with  many  little  desagrements,  when 
one  sees  that  the  people  are  determined  to  be  civil  to  one. 

Nobody  here  but and  the  Duchess,  who  don't  show 

at  breakfast,  and — no,  I  wont  go  on  writing  this  dreary 
nonsense,  which  was  begun  before  I  went  out  for  a  long 
walk  and  then  for  a  ride.  Both  were  exceedingly  pleas- 
ant, for  there  is  a  beautiful  park  and  gardens  and  con- 
servatories, and  only  to  see  the  ducks  on  the  water,  and 
the  great  big  lime  trees  in  the  avenue,  gives  one  the 
keenest  sensual  pleasure.  The  wind  seemed  to  me  to 
blow  floods  of  health  into  my  lungs,  and  the  man  I 
was  walking  with  was  evidently  amused  by  the  excite- 
ment and  enjoyment  of  his  companion.  I  recollect  His 
Reverence  at  Clevedon  being  surprised  at  my  boyish 
delight  on  a  similar  occasion.  It  is  worth  living  in  Lon- 
don, surely,  to  enjoy  the  country  when  you  get  to  it; 
and  when  you  go  to  a  man's  grounds  and  get  into  rap- 
tures concerning  them,  pointing  their  beauties  out  with 
eagerness  and  feeling,  perhaps  the  host  gets  a  better 
opinion  of  his  own  havings  and  belongings. 


e 
o 


o 
o 

n 


S 
en 

u 


B 

■s? 

•d 
a 

0) 


-a 
§ 

•d 


2 

I 

M 
(A 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  163 

At  this  juncture  I  actually  fell  asleep,  being  quite 
tired  out  with  walking,  riding,  and  fresh  air.  What  a 
gale  there  is  blowing,  and  what  a  night  your  sister  must 
have  had  to  cross!  My  lady  has  been  uncommonly 
gracious,  and  has  one  of  the  sweetest  voices  I  ever  heard, 
"an  excellent  thing  in  woman."  But  I  am  not  at  my 
ease  yet  with  her,  and  tremble  rather  before  her.  She 
is  in  a  great  state  of  suffering,  I  can  see  though,  and 
fancy  I  understand  the  reason  thereof.    .    .    . 

I  rode  with  Lord  Ashburton  to  Alresford,  where  I 
heard  the  magistrates'  sessions  held,  and  saw  the  squires 
arrive.  It  was  very  good  fun  for  me.  There  was  a 
sentimental  case,  which  somebody  would  have  liked;  as 
handsome  a  young  couple  as  I  ever  saw— the  girl  really 
beautiful,  and  the  man  a  deceiver,— and,  and,— there 
was  a  little  baby,  and  he  was  condemned  to  pay  1/6  a 
week  for  keeping  it;  but  Lord  what  it  would  be  to  live 
in  that  dreary  old  country  town!  It  is  good  to  see 
though,  and  to  listen  to  the  squires,  and  the  talk  about 
hunting,  and  the  scandal,  and  admire  the  wonderful 
varieties  of  men.  We  met  the  little  girl  and  the  baby 
trudging  home,  sometime  afterwards,  and  the  curate  in 
her  wake.  There  seemed  no  sort  of  shame  about  the 
business,  nor  love,  nor  tears,  as  far  as  one  could  see; 
not  a  halfpenny  worth  of  romance ;  only  when  the  child 
squalled,  the  mother,  who  was  very  fond  of  it,  nursed  it, 
and  that  made  a  pretty  picture. 

What  a  stupid  letter  I  am  writing!  I  have  nothing 
to  say;  I  left  my  portmanteau  in  London,  at  the  sta- 
tion, and  was  obliged  to  dine  in  a  frock  coat.  I  hadn't 
enough  clothes  to  my  bed,  and  couldn't  sleep  much.  .  .  . 


164  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

A  Fragment. 

From  the  Grange. 
The  Bishop  and  a  number  of  clergy  are  coming  here 
tomorrow  and  so  I  stay  on  for  a  couple  of  days.  Yes- 
terday it  rained  without,  and  I  was  glad  to  remain  in  my 
room  the  greater  part  of  the  day  and  to  make  a  good 
fire  and  prepare  myself  for  work.  But  I  did  none;  it 
wouldn't  come— sleep  came  instead,  and  between  it  and 
the  meals  and  reading  Alton  Locke — the  day  passed 
away.  To-day  we  have  had  a  fine  walk — to  Trench's 
parsonage,^  a  pretty  place  3  miles  off,  through  woods 
of  a  hundred  thousand  colours.  The  Poet  was  absent 
but  his  good-natured  wife  came  to  see  us; — by  Us  I 
mean  me,  Lady  Ashburton,  and  Miss  Farrer,  who 
walked  as  aide  de  camp  by  my  lady's  pony.  How  is  it 
that  I  find  myself  humbling  before  her  and  taking  a 
certain  parasitical  air  as  all  the  rest  do?  There's  some- 
thing commanding  in  the  woman  (she  was  born  in  1806 
you'll  understand)  and  I  see  we  all  of  us  bow  down 
before  her.  Why  don't  we  bow  down  before  you  ma'am. 
Little  Mrs.  Taylor  is  the  only  one  who  doesn't  seem  to 
Kotoo.  I  like  Taylor,^  whose  grandeur  wears  off  in 
ten  minutes,  and  in  whom  one  perceives  an  extremely 
gentle  and  loving  human  creature  I  think — not  a  man 
to  be  intimate  with  ever,  but  to  admire  and  like  from  a 
distance  and  to  have  a  sort  of  artistical  good  will  to. 
.  .  .  We  have  Carlyle  coming  down  directly  the  Tay- 
lors go  away.  Major  Rawlinson  arrives  to-night.  .  .  . 
I've  been  reading  in  Alton  Locke — Bailie  Cochrane, 

'  The  Rev.  R.  C.  Trench,  afterwards  Archbisliop  of  Dublin,  was  at  Trinity 
College  with  Mr.  Thackeray. 

^  Henry  Taylor,  author  of  Philip  Van  Artevelde,— afterwards  Sir  Henry 
Taylor. 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  165 

Keneally's  Goethe— and  a  book  on  the  decadence  of  La 
France  proved  by  figures,  and  showing  that  the  French 
are  not  increasing  in  wealth  or  numbers  near  so  fast  as 
the  Enghsh,  Prussians,  Russians.  Bailie  Cochrane  is 
an  amusing  fellow,  amusing  from  his  pomposity  and 
historic  air;  and  Alton  Locke  begins  to  be  a  bore,  I 
think;  and  Keneally's  Goethe  is  the  work  of  a  mad-cap 
with  a  marvellous  facility  of  versifying;  and  I  should 
like  Annie  and  Minnie  to  go  to  my  dear  lady  on 
Wednesday  if  you  will  have  them. 


1852. 

March  18th,  1852,  Kensington. 
My  Dear  Wm.  : 

I  have  just  received  your  kind  message  and  melan- 
choly news.  Thank  you  for  thinking  that  I'm  interested 
in  what  concerns  you,  and  sympathise  in  what  gives  you 
pleasure  or  grief.  Well,  I  don't  think  there  is  much 
more  than  this  today:  but  I  recall  what  you  have  said 
in  our  many  talks  of  your  father,  and  remember  the 
affection  and  respect  with  which  you  always  regarded 
and  spoke  of  him.  Who  would  wish  for  more  than  hon- 
our, love,  obedience  and  a  tranquil  end  to  old  age? 
And  so  that  generation  which  engendered  us  passes 
away,  and  their  place  knows  them  not;  and  our  turn 
comes  when  we  are  to  say  good  bye  to  our  joys,  strug- 
gles, pains,  affections — and  our  young  ones  will  grieve 
and  be  consoled  for  us  and  so  on.  We've  lived  as  much 
in  40  as  your  good  old  father  in  his  four  score  years, 
don't  j^ou  think  so? — and  how  awfully  tired  and  lonely 
we  are.  I  picture  to  myself  the  placid  face  of  the  kind 
old  father  with  all  that  trouble  and  doubt  over — his  life 


166  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

expiring  with  supreme  blessings  for  you  all— for  you 
and  Jane  and  unconscious  little  Magdalene  prattling 
and  laughing  at  life's  threshold ;  and  know  that  you  will 
be  tenderly  cheered  and  consoled  by  the  good  man's 
blessing  for  the  three  of  you;  while  yet,  but  a  minute, 
but  yesterday,  but  all  eternity  ago,  he  was  here  loving 
and  suffering.  I  go  on  with  the  paper  before  me — I 
know  there's  nothing  to  say — but  I  assure  you  of  my 
sympathy  and  that  I  am  yours  my  dear  old  friend 
afF'tly, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


Clarendon  Hotel,  New  York. 

Tuesday,  23  Dec.  [1852] 
My  Dear  Lady: 

I  send  you  a  little  line  and  shake  your  hand  across  the 
water.    God  bless  you  and  yours.   .    .    . 

The  passage  is  nothing,  now  it  is  over;  I  am  rather 
ashamed  of  gloom  and  disquietude  about  such  a  trifling 
journey.  I  have  made  scores  of  new  acquaintances  and 
lighted  on  my  legs  as  usual.  I  didn't  expect  to  like 
people  as  I  do,  but  am  agreeably  disappointed  and  find 
many  most  pleasant  companions,  natural  and  good; 
natural  and  well  read  and  well  bred  too;  and  I  suppose 
am  none  the  worse  pleased  because  everybody  has  read 
all  my  books  and  praises  my  lectures;  (I  preach  in  a 
Unitarian  Church,  and  the  parson  comes  to  hear  me. 
His  name  is  Mr.  Bellows,  it  isn't  a  pretty  name),  and 
there  are  2,000  people  nearly  who  come,  and  the  lectures 
are  so  well  liked  that  it  is  probable  I  shall  do  them  over 
again.    So  really  there  is  a  chance  of  making  a  pretty 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  167 

little  sum  of  money  for  old  age,  imbecility,  and  those 
young  ladies  afterwards. 

Had  Lady  Ashburton  told  you  of  the  moving  tables  ? 
Try,  six  or  seven  of  you,  a  wooden  table  without  brass 
castors ;  sit  round  it,  lay  your  hands  flat  on  it,  not  touch- 
ing each  other,  and  in  half  an  hour  or  so  perhaps  it  will 
begin  to  turn  round  and  round.  It  is  the  most  wonder- 
ful thing,  but  I  have  tried  twice  in  vain  since  I  saw  it 
and  did  it  at  Mr.  Bancroft's.  I  have  not  been  into 
fashionable  society  yet,  what  they  call  the  upper  ten 
thousand  here,  but  have  met  very  likeable  of  the  lower 
sort.  On  Sunday  I  went  into  the  country,  and  there 
was  a  great  rosy  jolly  family  of  sixteen  or  eighteen 
people,  round  a  great  tea-table;  and  the  lady  of  the 
house  told  me  to  make  myself  at  home— remarking  my 
bashfulness,  you  know— and  said,  with  a  jolly  face,  and 
twinkling  of  her  little  eyes,  "  Lord  bless  you,  we  know 
you  all  to  pieces! "  and  there  was  sitting  by  me  O !  such 
a  pretty  girl,  the  very  picture  of  Rubens's  second  wife, 
and  face  and  figure.  Most  of  the  ladies,  all  except  this 
family,  are  as  lean  as  greyhounds;  they  dress  prodigi- 
ously fine,  taking  for  their  models  the  French  actresses, 
I  think,  of  the  Boulevard  theatres. 

Broadway  is  miles  upon  miles  long,  a  rush  of  life 
such  as  I  never  have  seen;  not  so  full  as  the  Strand, 
but  so  rapid.  The  houses  are  always  being  torn  down 
and  built  up  again,  the  railroad  cars  drive  slap  into  the 
midst  of  the  city.  There  are  barricades  and  scafl*oldings 
banging  everywhere.  I  have  not  been  into  a  house 
except  the  fat  country  one,  but  something  new  is  being 
done  to  it,  and  the  hammerings  are  clattering  in  the 
passage,  or  a  wall,  or  steps  are  down,  or  the  family  is 
going  to  move.     Nobody  is  quiet  here,  no  more  am  I. 


168  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

The  rush  and  restlessness  pleases  me,  and  I  like,  for  a 
little,  the  dash  of  the  stream.  I  am  not  received  as  a 
god,  which  I  like  too.  There  is  one  paper  which  goes 
on  every  morning  saying  I  am  a  snob,  and  I  don't  say 
no.  Six  people  were  reading  it  at  breakfast  this  morn- 
ing, and  the  man  opposite  me  popped  it  under  the  table 
cloth.  But  the  other  papers  roar  with  apj^robation. 
"  Criez,  heuglez  O!  Journaux"  They  don't  understand 
French  though,  that  bit  of  Beranger  will  hang  fire. 
Do  you  remember  J  He  sur  cette  houle  &c.?  Yes,  my 
dear  sister  remembers.  God  Almighty  bless  her,  and 
all  she  loves. 

I  may  write  next  Saturday  to  Chesham  Place;  you 
will  go  and  carry  my  love  to  those  ladies  won't  you? 
Here  comes  in  a  man  with  a  paper  I  hadn't  seen;  I 
must  cut  out  a  bit  just  as  the  actors  do,  but  then  I  think 
you  will  like  it,  and  that  is  why  I  do  it.  There  was  a 
very  rich  biography  about  me  in  one  of  the  papers  the 
other  day,  with  an  account  of  a  servant,  maintained  in 
the  splendour  of  his  menial  decorations — Poor  old  John 
whose  picture  is  in  Pendennis.  And  I  have  filled  my 
paper,  and  I  shake  my  dear  lady's  hand  across  the  roar- 
ing sea,  and  I  know  that  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that 
I  prosper  and  that  I  am  well,  and  that  I  am  yours 

W.  M.  T. 

[^Cutting  from  the  New  York  Evening  Post  enclosed  in 

the  fore  going. 1 

The  building  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity  with 
the  celebrities  of  literature  and  fashion  in  this  metropo- 
lis, all  of  whom,  we  believe,  left,  perfectly  united  in  the 
opinion  that  they  never  remembered  to  have  spent  an 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  169 

hour  more  delightfully  in  their  lives,  and  that  the  room 
in  which  they  had  been  receiving  so  much  enjoyment, 
was  very  badly  lighted.  We  fear,  also,  that  it  was  the 
impression  of  the  many  who  were  disappointed  in  get- 
ting tickets,  that  the  room  was  not  spacious  enough  for 
the  purpose  in  which  it  has  been  appropriated. 

Every  one  who  saw  Mr.  Thackeray  last  evening  for 
the  first,  seemed  to  have  had  their  impressions  of  his 
appearance  and  manner  of  speech,  corrected.  Few  ex- 
pected to  see  so  large  a  man;  he  is  gigantic,  six  feet 
four  at  least;  few  expected  to  see  so  old  a  person;  his 
hair  appears  to  have  kept  silvery  record  over  fifty  years ; 
and  then  there  was  a  notion  in  the  minds  of  many  that 
there  must  be  something  dashing  and  "  fast "  in  his 
appearance,  whereas  his  costume  was  perfectly  plain; 
the  expression  of  his  face  grave  and  earnest ;  his  address 
perfectly  unaffected,  and  such  as  we  might  expect  to 
meet  with,  in  a  well  bred  man  somewhat  advanced  in 
years.  His  elocution,  also,  surprised  those  who  had 
derived  their  impressions  from  the  English  journals. 
His  voice  is  a  superb  tenor,  and  possesses  that  pathetic 
tremble  which  is  so  effective  in  what  is  called  emotive 
eloquence,  while  his  delivery  was  as  well  suited  to  the 
communication  he  had  to  make  as  could  well  have  been 
imagined. 

His  enunciation  is  perfect.  Every  word  he  uttered 
might  have  been  heard  in  the  remotest  quarters  of  the 
room,  yet  he  scar'^ely  lifted  his  voice  above  a  colloquial 
tone.  The  most  striking  feature  in  his  whole  manner 
was  the  utter  absence  of  affectation  of  any  kind.  He 
did  not  permit  himself  to  appear  conscious  that  he  was 
an  object  of  peculiar  interest  in  the  audience,  neither 
was  he  guilty  of  the  greater  error  of  not  appearing  to 


170  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

care  whether  they  were  interested  in  him  or  not.  In 
other  words,  he  inspired  his  audience  with  a  respect  for 
him,  as  a  man  proportioned  to  the  admiration,  which  his 
books  have  inspired  for  him  as  an  author. 

Of  the  lecture  itself,  as  a  work  of  art,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  speak  too  strongly.  Though  written  with 
the  utmost  simplicity  and  apparent  inattention  to  effects, 
it  overflowed  with  every  characteristic  of  the  author's 
happiest  vein.  There  has  been  nothing  written  about 
Swift  so  clever,  and  if  we  except  Lord  Orrery's  silly  let- 
ters, we  suspect  we  might  add  nothing  so  unjust. 

Though  suitable  credit  was  given  to  Swift's  talents, 
all  of  which  were  admirably  characterized,  yet  when  he 
came  to  speak  of  the  moral  side  of  the  dean's  nature  he 
saw  nothing  but  darkness. 


1853. 

Direct  Clarendon  Hotel  New  York. 

Philadelphia. 
21  to  23  January. 

My  dear  lady's  kind  sad  letter  gave  me  pleasure, 
melancholy  as  it  was.    .    .    . 

At  present,  I  incline  to  come  to  England  in  June  or 
July  and  get  ready  a  new  set  of  lectures,  and  bring 
them  back  with  me.  That  second  course  will  enable  me 
to  provide  for  the  children  and  their  mother  finally  and 
satisfactorily,  and  my  mind  will  be  easier  after  that,  and 
I  can  sing  Nunc  Dimittis  without  faltering.  There  is 
money -making  to  try  at,  to  be  sure,  and  ambition, — I 
mean  in  public  life;  perhaps  that  might  interest  a  man, 
but  not  novels,  nor  lectures,  nor  fun,  any  more.    I  don't 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  171 

seem  to  care  about  these  any  more,  or  for  praise,  or  for 
abuse,  or  for  reputation  of  that  kind.  That  literary 
play  is  played  out,  and  the  puppets  going  to  be  locked 
up  for  good  and  all. 

Does  this  melancholy  come  from  the  circumstance 
that  I  have  been  out  to  dinner  and  supper  every  night 
this  week?  O!  I  am  tired  of  shaking  hands  with  peo- 
ple, and  acting  the  lion  business  night  after  night. 
Evervbodv  is  introduced  and  shakes  hands.  I  know 
thousands  of  Colonels,  professors,  editors,  and  what  not, 
and  walk  the  streets  guiltily,  knowing  that  I  don't  know 
'em,  and  trembling  lest  the  man  opposite  to  me  is  one 
of  my  friends  of  the  day  before.  I  believe  I  am  popu- 
lar, except  at  Boston  among  the  newspaper  men  who 
fired  into  me,  but  a  great  favorite  with  the  monde  there 
and  elsewhere.  Here  in  Philadelphia  it  is  all  praise  and 
kindness.  Do  you  know  there  are  500,000  people  in 
Philadelj^hia?  I  daresay  you  had  no  idea  thereof,  and 
smile  at  the  idea  of  there  being  a  monde  here  and  at 
Boston  and  New  York.  Early  next  month  I  begin  at 
Washington  and  Baltimore,  then  D.  V.  to  New  Orleans, 
back  to  New  York  by  Mississippi  and  Ohio,  if  the  steam- 
ers don't  blow  up,  and  if  they  do,  you  know  I  am  easy. 
What  a  weary,  weary  letter  I  am  writing  to  you.  .  .  . 
Have  you  heard  that  I  have  found  Beatrix  at  New 
York?  I  have  basked  in  her  bright  eyes,  but  Ah,  me! 
I  don't  care  for  her,  and  shall  hear  of  her  marrying  a 
New  York  buck  with  a  feeling  of  perfect  pleasure.  She 
is  really  as  like  Beatrix,  as  that  fellow  William  and  I 
met  was  like  Costigan.  She  has  a  dear  woman  of  a 
mother  upwards  of  fifty-five,  whom  I  like  the  best,  I 
think,  and  think  the  handsomest,— a  sweet  lady.  What 
a  comfort  those  dear  Elliots  are  to  me;  I  have  had  but 


172  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

one  little  letter  from  J.  E.  full  of  troubles  too.  She 
says  you  have  been  a  comfort  to  them  too.  I  can't  live 
without  the  tenderness  of  some  woman ;  and  expect  when 
I  am  sixty  I  shall  be  marrying  a  girl  of  eleven  or  twelve, 
innocent,  barley-sugar-loving,  in  a  pinafore. 

They  came  and  interrupted  me  as  I  was  writing  this, 
two  days  since;  and  I  have  been  in  public  almost  ever 
since.  The  lectures  are  enormously  suivies  and  I  read 
at  the  rate  of  a  pound  a  minute  nearly.  The  curious 
thing  is,  that  I  think  I  improve  in  the  reading;  at  cer- 
tain passages  a  sort  of  emotion  springs  up,  I  begin  to 
understand  how  actors  feel  affected  over  and  over  again 
at  the  same  passages  of  the  play; — they  are  affected  off 
the  stage  too,  I  hope  I  shan't  be. 

Crowe  is  my  immensest  comfort;  I  could  not  live 
without  someone  to  take  care  of  me,  and  he  is  the  kind- 
est and  most  affectionate  henchman  ever  man  had.  I 
went  to  see  Pierce  Butler  yesterday,  Fanny's  husband. 
I  thought  she  would  like  me  to  see  the  children  if  I 
could,  and  I  asked  about  them  particularly,  but  they 
were  not  shown.  I  thought  of  good  Adelaide  coming 
to  sing  to  you  when  you  were  ill.  I  may  like  everyone 
who  is  kind  to  you,  mayn't  I?  .  .  .  What  for  has 
Lady  Ashburton  never  written  to  me?  I  am  writing 
this  with  a  new  gold  pen  in  such  a  fine  gold  case.  An 
old  gentleman  gave  it  to  me  yesterday,  a  white-headed 
old  philosopher  and  political  economist.  There's  some- 
thing simple  in  the  way  these  kind  folks  regard  a  man ; 
they  read  our  books  as  if  we  were  Fielding,  and  so  forth. 
The  other  night  some  men  were  talking  of  Dickens  and 
Bulwer  as  if  they  were  equal  to  Shakespeare,  and  I  was 
pleased  to  find  myself  pleased  at  hearing  them  praised. 
The  prettiest  girl  in  Philadelphia,  poor  soul,  has  read 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  173 

Vanity  Fair  twelve  times.  I  paid  her  a  great  big  com- 
pliment yesterda}^  about  her  good  looks  of  course,  and 
she  turned  round  dehghted  to  her  friend  and  said,  ''  Ai 
most  tallutf  that  is  something  like  the  pronunciation. 
Beatrix  has  an  adorable  pronunciation,  and  uses  little 
words,  which  are  much  better  than  wit.  And  what  do 
you  think?  One  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  Boston  is  to 
be  put  under  my  charge  to  go  to  a  marriage  at  Washing- 
ton next  week.  We  are  to  travel  together  all  the  way 
alone — only,  only,  I'm  not  going.  Young  people  when 
they  are  engaged  here,  make  tours  alone;  fancy  what 
the  British  ]Mrs.  Grundy  would  say  at  such  an  idea! 

There  Avas  a  young  quakeress  at  the  lecture  last  night, 
listening  about  Fielding.  Lord!  Lord!  how  pretty  she 
was!  There  are  hundreds  of  such  everyw^here,  airy 
looking  little  beings,  with  magnolia— no  not  magnolia, 
what  is  that  white  flower  you  make  bouquets  of,  Camilla 
or  camelia — complexions,  and  lasting  not  much  longer. 
.  .  .  God  bless  you  and  j^our  children,  write  to  me 
sometimes  and  farewell. 


[To  Miss  Perry'], 

Baltimore, — Washington. 

Feby.  7th.  to  14th.  '53. 
Although  I  have  WTitten  a  many  letters  to  Chesham 
Place  not  one  has  gone  to  the  special  address  of  my  dear 
K.  E.  P.,  and  if  you  please  I  will  begin  one  now  for  half 
an  hour  before  going  to  lecture  1.  In  another  hour  that 
dreary  business  of  "  In  speaking  of  the  English  Hu- 
mourous writers  of  the  last,  etc."  will  begin,  — and  the 
w^onder  to  me  is  that  the  speaker  once  in  the  desk  (to-day 


174  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

it  is  to  be  a  right  down  pulpit  in  a  Universalist  Church 
and  no  mistake),  gets  interested  in  the  work,  makes  the 
points,  thrills  with  emotion  and  indignation  at  the  right 
place,  and  has  a  little  sensation  whilst  the  work  is  going 
on ;  but  I  can't  go  on  much  longer,  my  conscience  revolts 
at  the  quackery.  Now  I  have  seen  three  great  cities, 
Boston,  New  York,  Philadelphia,  I  think  I  like  them  all 
mighty  well  they  seem  to  me  not  so  civilized  as  our  Lon- 
don, but  more  so  than  Manchester  and  Liverpool.  At 
Boston  is  verjT^  good  literate  company  indeed;  it  is  like 
Edinburgh  for  that, — a  vast  amount  of  toryism  and 
donnishness  everywhere.  That  of  New  York  the  sim- 
plest and  least  pretentious;  it  suffices  that  a  man  should 
keep  a  fine  house,  give  parties,  and  have  a  daughter,  to 
get  all  the  world  to  him.  And  what  struck  me,  that 
whereas  on  my  first  arrival,  I  was  annoyed  at  the  un- 
common splendatiousness 

—here  the  letter  was  interrupted  on  Monday  at  Balti- 
more, and  is  now  taken  up  again  on  Thursday  at  Wash- 
ington— never  mind  what  struck  me,  it  was  only  that 
after  a  while  you  get  accustomed  to  the  splendour  of  the 
dresses  and  think  them  right  and  proper.  Use  makes 
everything  so;  who  knows?  you  will  be  coming  out  in 
Empire  ruffs  and  high  waists  by  the  time  I  come  home. 
I  have  not  been  able  to  write  a  word  since  I  came  here 
on  Tuesday;  my  time  has  been  spent  in  seeing  and  call- 
ing upon  lions.  Our  minister  Mr.  Crampton  is  very  jolly 
and  good-natured.  Yesterday  he  had  a  dinner  at  five  for 
all  the  legation,  and  they  all  came  very  much  bored  to 
my  lecture.  To-day  I  dined  with  Mr.  Everett;  with  the 
President  it  may  be  next  week.  The  place  has  a  Wies- 
baden air— there  are  politics  and  gaieties  straggling  all 
over  it.    More  interruption  and  this  one  has  lasted  three 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  175 

days.  Book  indeed !  How  is  one  to  write  a  book  when  it 
is  next  to  impossible  to  get  a  quiet  half  hour?  Since  I 
wrote  has  come  a  short  kind  letter  from  dear  old  King- 
lake,  who  continues  to  give  bad  accounts  from  Chesham 
Place.  God  bless  all  there,  say  I.  I  wish  I  was  by  to  be 
with  my  dear  friends  in  grief,  I  know  they  know  how  to 
sympathize  (although  we  are  spoiled  by  the  world,  we 
have  no  hearts  you  know  &c.  &c. ;  but  then  it  may  happen 
that  the  high  flown  romantic  people  are  wrong,  and  that 
we  love  our  friends  as  well  as  they  do) .  I  don't  pity 
anybody  who  leaves  the  world,  not  even  a  fair  young 
girl  in  her  prime;  I  pity  those  remaining.  On  her  jour- 
ney, if  it  pleases  God  to  send  her,  depend  on  it  there's  no 
cause  for  grief,  that's  but  an  earthly  condition.  Out  of 
our  stormy  life,  and  brought  nearer  the  Divine  light  and 
warmth,  there  must  be  a  serene  climate.  Can't  you  fancy 
sailing  into  the  calm  ?  Would  you  care  about  going  on  the 
voyage,  only  for  the  dear  souls  left  on  the  other  shore? 
but  we  shan't  be  parted  from  them  no  doubt  though  they 
are  from  us.  Add  a  little  more  intelligence  to  that  which 
we  possess  even  as  we  are,  and  why  shouldn't  we  be 
with  our  friends  though  ever  so  far  off?  .  .  . 
Why  presently,  the  body  removed,  shouldn't  we  per- 
sonally be  anywhere  at  will — properties  of  Creation,  like 
the  electric  something  (spark  is  it?)  that  thrills  all  round 
the  globe  simultaneously  ?  and  if  round  the  globe  why  not 
Uberall?  and  the  body  being  removed  or  else  where  dis- 
posed of  and  developed,  sorrow  and  its  opposite,  crime 
and  the  reverse,  ease  and  disease,  desire  and  dislike  &c. 
go  along  with  the  body— a  lucid  Intelligence  remains,  a 
Perception  ubiquitous.  Monday.  I  was  interrupted  a 
dozen  times  yesterday  in  the  course  of  these  profitless 
Schwdrmereien.— There's  no  rest  here  for  pilgrims  like 


176  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

me.  Have  I  told  you  on  the  other  side  that  I'm  doing  a 
good  business  at  Baltimore  and  a  small  select  one  here? 
the  big-wigs  all  come  and  are  pleased;  all  the  legations 
and  old  Scott  the  unsuccessful  candidate  for  the  Presi- 
dency &c.  ?  It  is  well  to  have  come.-  I  shall  go  hence  to 
Richmond  and  Charleston  and  then  who  knows  whither? 
not  to  New  Orleans,  I  think  the  distance  is  too  great.  I 
can't  go  a  thousand  miles  fishing  for  half  as  many  pounds. 
Why  not  come  back  and  see  all  the  dear  faces  at  home? 
I  try  and  think  of  something  to  say  about  this  country; 
all  I  have  remarked  I  could  put  down  in  two  pages. 
Where's  the  eager  observation  and  ready  pencil  of  five 
years  ago?  I  have  not  made  a  single  sketch.  The  world 
passes  before  me  and  I  don't  care — Is  it  a  weary  heart 
or  is  it  a  great  cold  I  have  got  in  my  nose  which  stupefies 
me  utterly?  I  won't  inflict  any  more  megrims  upon  you, 
from  your  affectionate  friend  and 
brother 

W.  M.  T. 


ITo  Mrs.  Elliot  and  her  sister  Miss  Perry. 1 

March  3rd.  1853. 

Richmond,  Virginia. 
Address  the 

Clarendon— New  York. 

Fragment. 

I  am  getting  so  sick  and  ashamed  of  the  confounded 
old  lectures  that  I  wonder  I  have  the  courage  to  go  on 
delivering  them.  I  shan't  read  a  single  review  of  them 
when  they  are  published;  anything  savage  said  about 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  177 

them  will  serve  them  right.  They  are  popular  enough 
here.  The  two  presidents  at  Washington  came  to  the 
last,  and  in  this  pretty  little  town  the  little  Atheneum 
Hall  was  crowded  so  much  that  it's  a  pity  I  had  not  hired 
a  room  twice  as  big ;  but  £2500  is  all  I  shall  make  out  of 
them.  Well  that  is  £200  a  year  in  this  country  and  an 
immense  comfort  for  the  chicks.— Crowe  has  just  come 
out  from  what  might  have  been  and  may  be  yet  a  dread- 
ful scrape.  He  went  into  a  slave  market  and  began 
sketching;  and  the  people  rushed  on  him  savagely  and 
obliged  him  to  quit.  Fancy  such  a  piece  of  imprudence. 
It  may  fall  upon  his  chief,  who  knows,  and  cut  short  his 
popularity. 

The  negroes  don't  shock  me,  or  excite  my  compassion- 
ate feelings  at  all ;  they  are  so  grotesque  and  happy  that 
I  can't  cry  over  them.  The  little  black  imps  are  trotting 
and  grinning  about  the  streets,  w^omen,  workmen,  wait- 
ers, all  well  fed  and  happy.  The  place  the  merriest  little 
place  and  the  most  picturesque  I  have  seen  in  America, 
and  on  Saturday  I  go  to  Charlestown — shall  I  go  thence 
to  Havannah  ?  who  knows.  I  should  like  to  give  myself 
a  week's  holiday,  without  my  demd  lecture  box.  Shake 
every  one  bj^  the  hand  that  asks  about  me. 

I  am  yours  always— O!  you  kind  friends — 

W.  M.  T. 

[To  Miss  Perry']. 

Savannah,  Georgia,— [1855] 

Feast  of  St.  Valentine. 

This  welcome  day  brought  me  a  nice  long  letter  from 
K.  E.  P.,  and  she  must  know  that  I  write  from  the  most 
comfortable  quarters  I  have  ever  had  in  the  United 


178  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

States.  In  a  tranquil  old  city,  wide-streeted,  tree- 
planted,  with  a  few  cows  and  carriages  toiling  through 
the  sandy  road,  a  few  happy  negroes  sauntering  here 
and  there,  a  red  river  with  a  tranquil  little  fleet  of  mer- 
chant-men taking  in  cargo,  and  tranquil  ware-houses 
barricaded  with  packs  of  cotton, — no  row,  no  tearing 
northern  bustle,  no  ceaseless  hotel  racket,  no  crowds 
drinking  at  the  bar,— a  snug  little  languid  audience  of 
three  or  four  hundred  people,  far  too  lazy  to  laugh  or 
applaud;  a  famous  good  dinner,  breakfast  etc,  and  lei- 
sure all  the  morning  to  think  and  do  and  sleep  and  read 
as  I  like.  The  only  place  I  say  in  the  States  where  I  can 
get  these  comforts — all  free  gratis — is  in  the  house  of 
my  friend  Andrew  Low  of  the  great  house  of  A.  Low 
and  Co.,  Cotton  Dealers,  brokers,  Merchants— what's 
the  word  ?  Last  time  I  was  here  he  was  a  widower  with 
two  daughters  in  England,  about  whom — and  other  two 
daughters— there  was  endless  talk  between  us.  Now 
there  is  a  pretty  wife  added  to  the  establishment,  and  a 
little  daughter  number  three  crowing  in  the  adjoining 
nursery.  They  are  tremendous  men  these  cotton  mer- 
chants. 

When  I  had  finished  at  Charleston  I  went  oiF  to  a 
queer  little  rustic  city  called  Augusta— a  great  broad 
street  2  miles  long — old  quaint  looking  shops — houses 
with  galleries — ware-houses — trees — cows  and  negroes 
strolling  about  the  side  walks — plank  roads — a  happy 
dirty  tranquillity  generally  prevalent.  It  lies  130  miles 
from  Charleston.  You  take  8^  hours  to  get  there  by  the 
railway,  about  same  time  and  distance  to  come  here,  over 
endless  plains  of  swampy  pinelands — a  village  or  two 
here  and  there  in  a  clearing.  I  brought  away  a  snug 
little  purse  from  snug  little  Augusta,  though  I  had  a 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  179 

rival— A  Wild  man,  lecturing  in  the  very  same  hall: 
I  tell  j^ou  it  is  not  a  dignified  metier,  that  which  I 
pursue. 

What  is  this  about  the  Saturday  Review?  After  giv- 
ing Vernon  Harcourt  2/6  to  send  me  the  first  5  numbers, 
and  only  getting  No.  1,  it  is  too  bad  they  should  assault 
me— and  for  what?  My  lecture  is  rather  extra  loyal 
whenever  the  Queen  is  mentioned,— and  the  most  ap- 
plauded passage  in  them  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  de- 
livering to-night  in  the  Lecture  on  George  II,  where  the 
speaker  says  "  In  laughing  at  these  old-world  follies  and 
ceremonies  shall  we  not  acknowledge  the  change  of  to- 
day? As  the  mistress  of  St.  James  passes  me  now  I 
salute  the  sovereign,  wise,  moderate,  exemplary  of  life, 
the  good  mother,  the  good  wife,  the  accompHshed  Lady, 
the  enlightened  friend  of  Art,  the  tender  sympathizer  in 
her  people's  glories  and  sorrows." 

I  can't  say  more,  can  I?  and  as  for  George  III,  I 
leave  off  just  with  the  people  on  the  crying  point.  And 
I  never  for  one  minute  should  think  that  my  brave  old 
Venables  would  hit  me ;  or  if  he  did  that  he  hadn't  good 
cause  for  it. 

Forster's  classification  delights  me.  It's  right  that 
men  of  such  ability  and  merit  should  get  government 
recognition  and  honourable  public  employ.  It  is  a  com- 
pliment to  all  of  us  when  one  receives  such  promotion. 
As  for  me  I  have  pestered  you  with  my  account  of  dol- 
lars and  cents,  and  it  is  quite  clear  that  Kings  or  Laws  can- 
not do  anything  so  well  for  me  as  these  jaws  and  this 
pen — please  God  the}^  are  allowed  to  wag  a  little  longer. 
I  wish  I  did  not  read  about  your  illness  and  weakness  in 
that  letter.  Ah,  me !  many  and  many  a  time  every  day  do 
I  think  of  you  all. 


180  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

Enter  a  servant  (black)  with  the  card  of  Bishop  El- 
liott.  .  .  . 

If  you  are  taking  a  drive  some  day,  do  go  and  pay  a 
visit  of  charity  to  my  good  cook  and  house-keeper  Gray, 
and  say  you  have  heard  of  me,  and  that  I  am  very  well 
and  making  plenty  of  money  and  that  Charles  is  well 
and  is  the  greatest  comfort  to  me.  It  will  comfort  the 
poor  woman  all  alone  in  poor  36  yonder.  What  charm- 
ing letters  Annie  writes  me  with  exquisite  pretty  turns 
now  and  then.  St.  Valentine  brought  me  a  delightful 
letter  from  her  too,  and  from  the  dear  old  mother;  and 
whether  it's  the  comfort  of  this  house,  or  the  pleasure  of 
having  an  hour's  chat  with  you,  or  the  sweet  clean  bed  I 
had  last  night  and  undisturbed  rest  and  good  breakfast, 
— altogether  I  think  I  have  no  right  to  grumble  at  my 
lot  and  am  very  decently  happy,  don't  you? 

16th  Feb.  My  course  is  for  Macon,  Montgomery  and 
New  Orleans;  no  Havannah,  the  dollars  forbid.  From 
N.  O.  I  shall  go  up  the  Mississippi,  D.  V.,  to  St.  Louis 
and  Cincinnati,  and  ye  who  write  will  address  care  of  J. 
G.  King's  Sons,  New  York,  won't  you? 

Yours  aif  t. 

W.  M.  T. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  181 

An  imaginaey  letter  from  New  York.^ 

September  5,  1848. 
Dear  Madam:— 

It  seems  to  me  a  long  time  since  I  had  the  honour  of 
seeing  you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  some  account  of  your 
health.  We  made  a  beautiful  voyage  of  13^  days,  and 
reached  this  fine  city  yesterday.  The  entrance  of  the  bay 
is  beautiful;  magnificent  woods  of  the  Susquehannah 
stretch  down  to  the  shore,  and  from  Hoboken  lighthouse 
to  Vancouver's  Island,  the  bay  presents  one  brilliant 
blaze  of  natural  and  commercial  loveliness.  Hearing 
that  Titmarsh  was  on  board  the  steamer,  the  Lord  Mayor 
and  Aldermen  of  New  York  came  down  to  receive  us, 
and  the  batteries  on  Long  Island  fired  a  salute.  General 
Jackson  called  at  my  hotel,  (the  Astor  house)  I  found 
him  a  kind  old  man,  though  he  has  a  wooden  leg  and 
takes  a  great  deal  of  snuff.  Broadway  has  certainly  dis- 
appointed me— it  is  nothing  to  be  compared  to  our  own 
dear  Holborn  Hill.  But  the  beautiful  range  of  the  AUe- 
gheney  mountains,  which  I  see  from  my  windows,  and 
the  roar  of  the  Niagara  Cataract,  which  empties  itself 
out  of  the  Mississippi  into  the  Oregon  territory,  have  an 
effect,  which  your  fine  eye  for  the  picturesque,  and  keen 
sense  of  the  beautiful  and  the  natural  would  I  am  sure 
lead  you  to  appreciate. 

The  oysters  here  are  much  larger  than  ours,  and  the 
canvass  backed  ducks,  are  reckoned,  and  indeed  are,  a 

1  This  letter,  the  only  one  of  those  in  the  collection  which  has  been  made  pub- 
lic before,  was  printed  by  permission  in  the  Orphan  of  Pimlico,  a  little  collec- 
tion of  Thackeray's  miscellanea  and  drawings  published  in  1876.  As  it  will  be 
new  to  most  readers,  however,  it  has  been  thought  best  to  retain  it;  and  it  is 
placed  here  simply  to  be  in  company  with  the  real  American  letters.  The  draw- 
ing of  the  Negro,  however,  which  accompanied  it  also  in  the  Orphan  of  Pimlico, 
seems  to  have  been  an  actual  sketch  during  one  of  the  American  visits. 


182  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

delicacy.  The  house  where  Washington  was  born  is 
still  shown,  but  the  General  I  am  informed,  is  dead,  much 
regretted.  The  clergy  here  is  both  numerous  and  re- 
spected, and  the  Archbishop  of  New  York  is  a  most 
venerable  and  delightful  prelate;  whose  sermons  are 
however  a  little  long.  The  ladies  are  without  exception 
the— But  here  the  first  gong  sounds  for  dinner,  and  the 
black  slave  who  waits  on  me,  comes  up  and  says,  "  Massa, 
hab  only  five  minutes  for  dinnah."  "  Make  haste,  git  no 
pumpkin  pie  else,"  so  unwillingly  I  am  obliged  to  break 
off  my  note  and  to  subscribe  myself. 

My  dear  Madame 

Your  very  faithful  servt., 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  183 


[1854] 

I  hope  you  will  not  object  to  hear  that  I  am  quite  well 
this  morning.  I  should  have  liked  to  shake  hands  with  H. 
before  his  departure,  but  I  was  busy  writing  at  the  hour 
when  he  said  he  was  going,  and  fell  sound  asleep  here 
last  night,  after  a  very  modest  dinner,  not  waking  till 
near  midnight,  when  it  was  too  late  to  set  off  to  the 
Paddington  Station. 

What  do  you  think  I  have  done  to-day?  I  have  sent  in 
my  resignation  to  Punch.    There  appears  in  next  Punch 

an  article,  so  wicked,  I  think,  by  poor that  upon 

my  word  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  pull  any  longer  in  the 
same  boat  with  such  a  savage  little  Robespierre.  The 
appearance  of  this  incendiary  article  put  me  in  such  a 
rage,  that  I  could  only  cool  m3^self  by  a  ride  in  the  Park ; 
and  I  should  very  likely  have  reported  myself  in  Port- 
man  Street,  but  I  remembered  how  you  had  Miss  Prince 
to  luncheon,  and  how  I  should  be  de  trop.  Now  I  am 
going  to  work  the  rest  of  the  middle  of  the  day  until 
dinner  time,  when  I  go  to  see  Le  Prophete  again;  but  it 
would  please  me  very  much,  if  you  please,  to  hear  that 
you  were  pretty  well. 

Always  faithfully  de  Madame  le  serviteur  devoue 

W.  M.  T. 


184  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 


The  letters  which  have  been  chosen  for  pubhcation 
end  here.  During  the  many  years  that  they  have  re- 
mained in  my  possession  no  one  has  read  them  out  of 
my  own  family,  with  the  exception  of  ]Mr.  Thackeray's 
beloved  daughter,  Mrs.  Ritchie;  until  these  last  few 
months,  when  two  or  three  of  these  letters  were  read  by 
the  friends  whom  I  consulted  as  to  their  suitability  for 
publication.  As  my  own  life  draws  to  a  close,  I  still  look 
back  to  the  confidence  and  aiFection  with  which  their 
writer  honoured  me,  with  gratitude  too  deep  for  words. 
The  record  of  these  few  years  of  his  life,  given  by  his 
own  hand  in  every  varied  mood,  will  best  describe  him 
as  he  was  and  as  I  so  well  remember  him ;  but  my  friend 
Kate  Perry's  charming  recollections  cannot  fail  to  be 
read  with  general  interest. 

Jane  Octavia  Brookfield. 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  185 


***  In  addition  to  the  passages  quoted  from  Miss 
Perry,  I  give  two  slight  anecdotes  of  my  own  early  ac- 
quaintance : 

When,  soon  after  our  marriage,  Mr.  Brookfield  in- 
troduced his  early  college  friend,  Mr.  Thackeraj%  to  me, 
he  brought  him  one  day  unexpectedly  to  dine  with  us. 
There  was,  fortunately^  a  good  plain  dinner,  but  I  was 
young  and  shy  enough  to  feel  embarrassed  because  we 
had  no  sweets,  and  I  privately  sent  my  maid  to  the  near- 
est confectioner's  to  buy  a  dish  of  tartlets,  which  I 
thought  would  give  a  finish  to  our  simple  meal.  When 
they  were  placed  before  me,  I  timidly  offered  our  guest 
a  small  one,  saying,  "  Will  j-ou  have  a  tartlet,  Mr.  Thack- 
eray?" "I  will,  but  I'll  have  a  two-penny  one,  if  you 
please,"  he  answered,  so  beamingly,  that  we  all  laughed, 
and  my  shyness  disappeared. 

On  another  occasion,  also  very  early  in  my  friendship 
with  Mr.  Thackeray,  he  was  at  our  house  one  evening 
with  a  few  other  intimate  friends,  when  the  conversation 
turned  on  court  circulars,  and  their  sameness  day  after 
day.  A  few  samples  were  given:  "So-and-so  had  the 
honour  of  joining  Her  Majesty's  dinner  party  with 
other  lofty  and  imposing  personages,"  invariably  ending 
with  Dr.  Pretorius.  "  By  the  way,  who  is  Dr.Pretorius  ? " 
somebody  asked.  A  slight  pause  ensued,  when  a  voice 
began  solemnly  singing  the  National  Anthem,  ending 
each  verse  with, 

"  God  save  our  gracious  Queen, 
Send  her  victorious,  happy  and  glorious, 
Dr.  Pretorius — God  save  the  Queen." 


186  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

This  was  Mr.  Thackeray,  who  had  been  sitting  per- 
fectly silent  and  rather  apart  from  those  who  were  talk- 
ing, and  had  not  appeared  to  notice  what  was  said. 


SOME   EXTRACTS    FROM   MISS    KATE 

PERRY'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MR. 

THACKERAY 

My  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Thackeray  began  at 
Brighton,  where  I  was  staying  with  my  eldest  brother, 
William  Perry.  In  most  cases  there  is  a  prelude  to 
friendship— at  first  it  is  a  delicate  plant,  with  barely  any 
root,  gradually  throwing  out  tender  green  leaves  and 
buds,  and  then  full-blown  flowers — the  root  in  the  mean- 
while taking  firm  hold  of  the  earth— and  cruel  is  the 
frost  or  cutting  wind  which  destroys  it.  But  Mr.  Thack- 
eray and  I  went  through  no  gradations  of  growth  in  our 
friendship ;  it  was  more  like  Jack's  bean-stalk  in  a  pan- 
tomime, which  rushed  up  sky-high  without  culture,  and, 
thank  God,  so  remained  till  his  most  sad  and  sudden 
end. 

In  the  earliest  days  of  our  friendship  he  brought  his 
morning  work  to  read  to  me  in  the  evening;  he  had  just 
commenced  "  Vanity  Fair,"  and  was  living  at  the  Old 
Ship  Inn,  where  he  wrote  some  of  the  first  numbers.  He 
often  then  said  to  me :  "  I  wonder  whether  this  will  take, 
the  publishers  accept  it,  and  the  world  read  it?"  1  re- 
member answering  him  that  I  had  no  reliance  upon  my 
own  critical  powers  in  literature ;  but  that  I  had  written 
to  mv  sister,  JNIrs.  Frederick  Elliot,  and  said,  "  I  have 
made  a  great  friendship  with  one  of  the  principal  con- 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY  187 

tributors  of  Punch— Mt.  Thackeray;  he  is  now  writing 
a  novel,  but  cannot  hit  upon  a  name  for  it.  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  it  seems  to  me  the  cleverest  thing  I  ever  read. 
The  first  time  he  dined  with  us  I  was  fearfully  alarmed 
at  him.  The  next  day  we  walked  in  Chichester  Park 
when  he  told  all  about  his  little  girls,  and  of  his  great 
friendship  with  the  Brookfields,  and  I  told  him  about 
you  and  Chesham  Place."  When  he  heard  this,  and  my 
opinion  of  his  novel,  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  said: 
"Ah!  Mademoiselle  (as  he  always  called  me),  it  is  7iot 
small  beer ;  but  I  do  not  know  whether  it  will  be  palatable 
to  the  London  folks."  He  told  me,  some  time  afterward, 
that,  after  ransacking  his  brain  for  a  name  for  his  novel, 
it  came  upon  him  unawares,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
as  if  a  voice  had  whispered,  "  Vanity  Fair."  He  said, 
"  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  ran  three  times  round  my 
room,  uttering  as  I  went,  'Vanity  Fair,  Vanity  Fair, 
Vanity  Fair.' " 

Afterward  we  frequently  met  at  the  Miss  Berrys', 
where  night  after  night  were  assembled  all  the  wit  and 
beauty  of  that  time.  There  was  such  a  charm  about  these 
gatherings  of  friends,  that  hereafter  we  may  say :  "  There 
is  no  salon  now  to  compare  to  that  of  the  Miss  Berrys', 
in  Curzon  Street."  My  sister  and  I,  with  our  great  ad- 
miration and  friendship  for  Mr.  Thackeray,  used  to 
think  that  the  Miss  Berrys  at  first  did  not  thoroughly 
appreciate  or  understand  him ;  but  one  evening,  when  he 
had  left  early,  they  said  they  had  perceived,  for  the  first 
time,  "what  a  very  remarkable  man  he  was."  He  be- 
came a  constant  and  most  welcome  visitor  at  their  house ; 
they  read  his  works  with  delight,  and,  whenever  they 
were  making  up  a  pleasant  dinner,  used  to  say:  "We 


188  LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY 

must  have  Thackeray."  It  was  at  one  of  these  dinners 
that  Miss  Berry  astonished  us  all  by  saying  she  "had 
never  read  Jane  Austen's  novels,  until  lately  someone 
had  lent  them  to  her.  But  she  could  not  get  on  with 
them;  they  were  totally  uninteresting  to  her — long- 
drawn-out  details  of  very  ordinary  people,"  and  she 
found  the  books  so  tedious  that  she  could  not  understand 
their  having  obtained  such  a  celebrity  as  they  had  done. 
"Thackeray  and  Balzac,"  she  added  (Thackeray  being 
present) ,  "  write  with  great  minuteness,  but  do  so  with  a 
brilliant  pen."  Thackeray  made  two  bows  of  gratitude 
(one,  pointing  to  the  ground,  for  Balzac).  Those  who 
love  to  pore  over  old  memoirs  will  find  Miss  Berry's 
name  associated  with  Horace  Walpole's;  but  when  they 
met  he  was  very  old,  and  she  was  very  young.  She 
accepted  his  admiration  with  pride  and  gratitude, 
but  had  no  aspiration  to  be  the  mistress  of  Strawberry 
Hill. 

Miss  Agnes  Berry  adored  her  elder  sister;  she  had 
considerable  clearness  and  acuteness  of  perception,  and 
Thackeray  always  maintained  she  was  the  more  natur- 
ally gifted  of  the  two  sisters.  In  her  youth  she  was  a 
pretty,  charming  girl,  with  whom  Gustavus  Adolphus 
danced  at  one  of  his  court  balls,  and  was  admired 
and  envied  by  the  other  ladies  present.  These  two 
remarkable  women  lived  together  for  nearly  ninety 
years. 

Thackeray's  love  of  children  was  one  of  the  strongest 
feelings  of  his  heart.  In  a  little  poem,  "  The  Golden 
Pen,"  published  in  his  "  Miscellanies,"  which  is,  perhaps, 
the  truest  portrait  of  him  which  has  ever  appeared,  he 
writes : 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  189 

"There's  something,  even  in  his  bitterest  mood, 
That  melts  him  at  the  sight  of  infanthood; 
Thank  God  that  he  can  love  the  pure  and  good." 

This  sympathy  with  the  little  ones  was  not  only  proved 
by  his  immense  devotion  to  his  own  most  gifted  children, 
but  extended  to  the  little  "gutter  child,"  as  the  trim 
board-school  girl  of  to-day  was  called  then.  For  this 
waif  of  society  he  felt  the  tenderest  pity  and  interest. 
He  used  often  to  visit  a  school  where  my  dear  sister  had 
collected  nearly  three  hundred  of  these  neglected  chil- 
dren, feeding,  teaching,  and  clothing  them,  and,  with  the 
help  of  other  kind  souls,  preparing  them  in  some  de- 
gree to  fight  the  battle  of  life,  in  which  there  are  many 
crosses — but  few  Victoria  ones.  Turning  his  steps  one 
day  to  this  large,  rough-looking  school-room,  he  entered 
it  just  as  these  little  Arabs  were  commencing,  with  more 
heartiness  than  melody,  Faber's  beautiful  hymn: 

"  O  Paradise  !    O  Paradise ! 

Who  doth  not  crave  for  rest? 
Who  would  not  seek  the  happy  land, 
Where  they  that  love  are  blest?" 

He  turned  to  the  lady  superintending  them,  and  said, 
"  I  cannot  stand  this  any  longer— my  spectacles  are  get- 
ting very  dim." 

One  day,  some  few  years  later,  I  had  been  engaged 
in  summing  up  the  monthly  expenses  of  the  same  school, 
and  had  left  open  on  my  writing-table,  the  much  scored- 
over  Soup  Kitchen  book.  Mr.  Thackeray  was  shown 
into  the  room,  and  was  for  some  minutes  alone  before  I 
joined  him.  After  he  left,  I  resumed  my  labors,  and 
found  on  the  first  page  of  the  book  a  beautifully  exe- 


190  LETTERS   OF   THACKEEAY 

cuted  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  little  children  crowding 
round  the  school-mistress,  who  was  ladling  out,  into 
mugs  of  various  sizes  and  shapes,  the  daily  meal  of  soup, 
above  which  was  written,  "  Suffer  little  children,  and  for- 
bid them  not." 

Another  day,  I  found  a  sovereign  under  a  paper  con- 
taining the  names  of  some  friends  of  the  school  who  had 
joined  in  a  subscription  to  give  the  children  a  day's  holi- 
day in  the  country.  I  said  to  my  servant,  "  Mr.  Thack- 
eray has  been  here,"  and  found  from  him  this  was  the 
case.  I  knew  my  instinct  was  right,  that  it  was  his  hand 
which  had  placed  the  money  there.  His  charity  was  very 
wide,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word.  He  has  been 
known  to  discover,  in  some  remote  corner,  the  hapless 
artist  or  dramatist  who  in  his  palmy  days  had  not  thought 
much  of  that  night— old  age—"  when  no  more  work  can 
be  done."  Thackeray  would  mount  the  many  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  desolate  chamber — administer  some  little  re- 
buke on  the  thoughtlessness  of  not  laying  by  some  of  the 
easily  gained  gold  of  youth  or  manhood,  and  slipping, 
as  in  one  instance,  into  an  old  blotting-book,  a  £100  note, 
would  hurry  away. 

"  I  never  saw  him  do  it,"  said  poor  old  P .    "  I  was 

very  angry  because  he  said  I  had  been  a  reckless  old 
goose— and  then  a  £100  falls  out  of  my  writing-book. 
God  bless  him!" 

These  good  deeds  would  never  have  come  to  light  but 
for  the  gratitude  of  those  who,  though  they  had  the 
gentle  rebuke,  received  also  the  more  than  liberal  help. 
I  know  he  has  been  accused  of  extreme  sensitiveness  to 
blame,  either  about  himself  or  his  writings,  but  the  fol- 
lowing story  proves  that  he  could  forgive  with  magna- 


LETTERS   OF   THACKERAY  191 

nimity  and  grace  when  roughly  and  severely  handled. 
This  once  occurred  at  my  sister's  dinner-table.  Thack- 
eray, who  was  almost  a  daily  visitor  at  her  house,  for 
some  time  took  it  into  his  head,  to  be  announced  by  the 
name  of  the  most  noted  criminal  of  the  day.  Our  butler 
did  this  with  the  greatest  gravity. 

On  this  occasion  Thackeray  had  been  asked  to  join 
some  friends  at  dinner,  but  not  arriving  at  the  pre- 
scribed hour,  the  guests  sat  down  without  him.    Among 

them  was  jNIr.  H ,  the  author  of  some  of  the  most 

charming  books  of  the  day. 

The  conversation  being  more  literary  than  otherwise, 
Thackeray  (then  at  the  very  height  of  his  fame)  came 
under  discussion,  and,  some  of  his  greatest  friends  and 
admirers  being  present,  he  was  S2)oken  of  with  unquali- 
fied admiration.     ]\Ir.  H was  the  exception,  and 

dissented  from  us,  in  very  unmeasured  terms,  in  our  es- 
timate of  Thackeray's  character.  Judging,  he  said, 
"  from  the  tenor  of  his  books,  he  could  not  believe  how 
one  who  could  dwell,  as  he  did,  on  the  weakness  and 
absurdities  and  shortcomings  of  his  fellow-creatures, 
could  possess  any  kind  or  generous  sympathies  toward 
the  human  race."  He  concluded  his  severe  judgment 
by  saying  that,  "  He  had  never  met  him,  and  hoped  he 
never  should  do  so." 

We  were  all  so  occupied  by  this  fiery  debate  that  we 
did  not  observe  that,  under  the  sobriquet  of  some  jail- 
bird of  the  day,  Thackeray  had  slipped  into  his  chair, 
and  heard  much  that  was  said,  including  the  severe  pero- 
ration.   A  gentle  tap  on  Mr.  H 's  shoulder,  and,  in 

his  pleasant,  low  voice,  Thackeray  said,  "  I,  on  the  con- 

NoTE.— The  little  sketch  of  the  cupid  [p.  192]  was  sent  to  Miss  Perry 
unfinished  as  it  is,  as  an  acknowledgment  for  some  grapes  which  she  had 
given  to  one  of  his  daughters  who  was  not  well. — J.  O.  B. 


192  LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 

trary,  have  always  longed  for  the  occasion  when  I  could 

express,  personally,  to  Mr.  H ,  the  great  admiration 

I  have  always  felt  for  him,  as  an  author  and  a  man." 
It  is  pleasant  to  think  they  became  fast  friends  there- 
after. 

I  find  it  difficult  to  check  my  pen  from  being  garru- 
lous as  I  remember  the  many  instances  of  the  kindness 
and  generosity  of  his  nature,  though,  at  the  same  time, 
I  feel  how  inadequate  it  is  to  do  justice  to  all  his  noble 
and  delightful  qualities.  His  wit  and  humour  and  play- 
fulness were  most  observable  where  he  was  happiest  and 
most  at  ease, — with  his  beloved  daughters,  or  with  his 
dear  friends  the  Brookfields,  who  were  the  most  intimate 
and  valued  of  those  he  made  in  middle  life.  I  am  proud 
to  say,  also,  that  he  was  aware  of  the  admiration  in  which 
he  was  held  by  every  member  of  my  sister's  home, 
where  his  ever  ready  sympathy  in  all  our  troubles  and 
pleasures  was  truly  appreciated— and  when  he  passed 
away,  and  the  place  knew  him  no  more,  a  great  shadow 
fell  upon  that  house. 

Kate  Perry. 


INDEX  TO  LETTERS 

[All  letters  not  especially  addressed  to  others  were  written  to  Mrs. 
Brookfield,  or  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brookjield  Jointly .] 


AiNSWORTH,  W.  H.,  90 
Alexis,  the  somnambulist,  62 
Alresford,  the  magistrates'  sessions 

at,  163 
AxcELOT,  Mme.,  159 
Arlixcourt,  Vicomte  d',  121 
AsHBURTON,  Lord,  163 
AsHBUHTON,   Lady,   40,   64,   72,    103, 

164,  167,  172 

Baltimore,  Thackeray  at,  173,  174 

Beauvoir,  Roger  de,  94 

Bedford,  the  Dowager  Duchess  of,  59 

Bellows,  Rev.  Henry  W.,  166 

Benedict,  Sir  Julius,  65  n. 

Berne,  Thaclieray  at,  155 

Berry,  the  Misses,  5-2,  72,  105,  110, 
187 

Blenheim,  Thackeray  at,  35 

Bonneval,  Mme.  de,  154 

Bracebridge,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  25 

Brandauer,  Miss,  27 

Brighton,  Thackeray  at,  67 

Brohan,  Mile.,  85 

Brookfield,  Rev.  William  Henry 
(often  referred  to  in  the  letters  by 
various  names,  as  "  Mr.  Williams," 
"the  Inspector,"  etc.),  9  n.,  27,  28, 
29,  37,  40,  42,  47,  49,  52,  54,  56,  65 
et  seq.,  73,  82,  90,  91,  92,  98,  107, 
114,  121,  124,  125,  133;  letters  to, 
7,  8,  10,  25,  30,  31,  34,  56,  59,  63, 
64,  75,  137,  143,  144,  145,  165 

Brougham,  Lord,  105 

Brussels,  Thackeray  at,  11  et  seq. 

Budd,  Captain,  52 

Bullar,  Joseph,  26,  39,  95 

BuLLAH,  William,  147 

BuLLEH,  Charles,  death  of,  37 

Butler,  Pierce,  172 

Byng,  Mr.,  161 

Canterbury,  Thackeray  at,  13 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  38,  124,  164 
Castlereagh,  Lord  and  Lady,   109, 

114,  121,  131 
Chapman,  Mr.,  12 


Chasles,  Mr.,  82 

Chronicle,  The,  Thackeray's  contri- 
butions to,  33 

Clevedon  Court,  9  n.,  31  n.,  32  n., 
33,  34 

Colemache,  Mme.,  159 

CowpER,  Spencer,  61 

Crampton,  Mr.,  British  Minister  at 
Washington,  174 

Crowe,  Eyre,  63  n. 

Crowe,  Mr.,  8 

Crowe,  Mrs.,  63  n.,  73 

Crowe,  Thackeray's  servant,  172 

Damer,  Colonel,  110 

"  DA\nD  Copperfield,"  59,  93 

Davy,  Lady,  51,  57 

De  Bathe,  Sir  Henry  and  Lady,  65 

Dejazet,  Mile.,  16 

Dickens,  Charles,  "  Reconciliation 
banquet "  given  to  him  and  Thack- 
eray by  Forster,  7;  Letter  of  A. 
H.  concerning,  with  Thackeray's 
comments,  9;  Thackeray  on,  74 

DiLKE,  Charles  Wentworth,  32 

Dover,  Thackeray  at,  14,  41 

Doyle,  Richard,  142 

Elgin,  Lady,  161 

Ellice,  Mr.,  113 

Elliot,  Frederick,  150 

Elliot,  Mrs.,  109,  136,  150;  letters  to, 
176  et  seq.,  186 

Elliot,  Miss  Hatty,  110 

Elliotson,  Dr.,  78,  110 

Elton,  Sir  Charles,  9  n.,  31  n. 

Elton,  Sir  Edmund,  32  n. 

Errington,  Mrs.,  85 

Evening  Post,  The,  New  York,  Ex- 
tract from,  on  Thackeray's  lec- 
tures, 168 

Everett,  Edward,  175 

Exhibition  of  1851,  142 


Farrer,  Miss,  164 
Fanshawe,  Mrs.,  54,  85,  127 


193 


194 


INDEX  TO  LETTERS 


Fielding's    Novels,     Thackeray     on, 

24 
FoNBLANQUE,  Mr.,  72 
FoRSTER,   John,   His   "  reconciliation 

banquet,"  7;  mention  of,  12  and  n. 
Feaser,  Thomas,  85,  114 

Galignani's  Messenger,  Thackeray's 

contributions  to,  40 
GiGoux,  Mr.,  115 
Gordon,    Sir   Alexander   and   Lady 

Duff,  64,  65 
Granville,  Lady,  59 
GuDiN,  Theodore,  114 
Gudin,  Mme.,  85,  120 

Hallam,    Henry    Fitzmaurice,    33, 

64,  136;  death  of,  137 
Hallam,  Miss,  75 
Halliday,  Mr.,  85 
Heidelberg,  Thackeray  at,  153 
Herbert,  Mrs.,  132 
HiGGiNS,    Matthew    James     (Jacob 

Omnium),  73  n. 
HisLop,  Lady,  110 
Holland,  Lord,  140 
H(3tel  des  Pays  Bas,  Spa,  19  et  seq. 
Howden,  Lord,  111 

Jacobs,  the  Wizard,  13 
"  Jane  Eyre,"  its  authorship  attrib- 
uted to  Procter,  32 
Janin,  Jules,  79  et  seq. 
Jones,  Longueville,  40 

Kenyon,  Mr.,  137 

Kinglake,  Alexander  William,  110 

Kingsley,  Charles,  153 

Lamartine,  Alphonse  de,  42 
Lansdowne,  Lord,  124 
Leslie,  the  Misses,  58 
Lind,  Mme.  Jennie,  65,  126 
Literary  Fund,  Thackeray's  dinner 

and  speech  at,  128 
Louvre,  The,  Thackeray  at,  83 
Lovelace,  Lady,  52 
Low,  Andrew,  178 
Lucerne,  Thackeray  at,  157 
Lytton,  Sir  Bulwer,  131 

Macaulay,  Thomas   Babington,  96, 

98 
Macdonald,  Norman,  37 
Mackenzie,  Mrs.  Stewart,  152 
Maine,  Henry,  125 
Marrast,  Mr.,  42 
Martchenko,  Mr.,  154 


Meurice's   Hotel,   Paris,   Thackeray 

at,  42 
Mill,  John  Stuart,  103 
MoLEswoRTH,  Sir  William  and  Lady, 

135 
Montgomery,  Mrs.  Alfred,  76 
Morgan,  Captain,  58 
Morier,  Mr.,  39,  68 
M  OR  LEY,  Lady,  124 
"  Mysteres   de    Londres,"    a    French 

play,    Thackeray's    description    of, 

45 

Napier,  Sir  George,  98 

New   York,   Thackeray   in,   166; 

imaginary  letter  from,  181 
NoRMANBY,  Lord,  44,  114 

O'Brien,  Smith,  22 
Orsay,  the  Count  d',  118 
OsY,  Mme.,  86 
Oxford,  Thackeray  at,  34 

Palmer,  Mr.,  68 

Paris,  Thackeray  in,  42,  79   et  seq., 

110  et  seq.,  159  et  seq. 
Parr,  Mrs.,  34,  77 
Parr,  Thomas,  152 
Pattle,   Miss    Virginia,   70   n.,   103, 

137 
Payne,   Mrs.   Brookfield's   maid,   23, 

26 
Peacock,  Thomas  Love,  106 
Peel,  Sir  Robert  and  Lady,  123 
"  Pendennis,"  31,  33,  47,  51,  53,  54, 

69,  71,  72,  80,  89,  103 
Perry,  Miss  Kate,  60,  109;  her  recol- 
lections of  Thackeray,  186;  letters 

to,  176,  177 
Perry,  William,  186 
Philadelphia,  Thackeray  in,  170 
Powell,  Mrs.,  76 

Prinsep,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  70  n.,  103 
Procter,  Adelaide,  32,  53,  75 
Procter,     Bryan     Waller     (Barry 

Cornwall),  49,  50  n. 
Procter,  Mrs.,  31,  54,  59,  60,  134 
Punch,  29;  Thackeray  resigns  from, 

183 

Rothesay,  Lady  Stuart  de,  110 
Rawlinson,  Major,  164 
Rehda,  baths  of,  25 
Rice,  Spring,  144 
Richmond,  Thackeray  at,  176 
RoBBiNs,  Mrs.,  77 
Rothschild,  Baron,  42 


INDEX  TO  LETTERS 


195 


Royal  Scots  Fusiliers,  Thackeray's 

visit  to,  12 
Ryde,  Thackeray  at,  60 

Sandwich,  Lady,  114 
Sahtoris,  Mrs.,  66 
Savannah,  Thackeray  at,  177 
Scott,  General  Win  field,  176 
Sterling,  A.,  64  n. 
Sheil,  Richard,  72 
Simeon,  Mr.,  139 
Smith,  Horace,  68 
Smith,  the  Misses,  68,  70  n.,  78 
Spa,  Thackeray  at,  17  et  seq. 
Sortain,  Mr.,  38 
Sutro,  Dr.,  25 

Taylor,  Henry,  144,  164 

Tennent,  Lady,  58 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 
circumstances  of  his  correspon- 
dence with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brook- 
field,  3,  4,  5;  his  visit  to  the  Royal 
Scots  Fusiliers  in  garrison,  12  et 
seq.;  his  hour  in  Canterbury  Cathe- 
dral, 14-16;  journey  to  Brussels, 
16;  on  Becky  Sharp  and  others  of 
his  characters,  17;  journey  to  Spa, 
17  et  seq.;  on  Titmarsh's  reception 
at  the  Hotel  d'York,  18;  in  the 
play-house  at  Spa,  21,  22;  his  notes 
in  verse,  28,  29,  30;  comments  on 
"  Pendennis,"  33;  writes  for  the 
Chronicle,  33;  at  Oxford  and 
Blenheim,  34  et  seq.;  on  the  ser- 
vice in  Magdalen  Chapel,  36;  on 
Charles  Buller's  death,  37;  on 
"  blasphemous  ascetism,"  39 ;  at 
Dover,  41;  in  Paris,  42;  his  "quar- 
antine of  family  dinners,"  etc., 
43;  description  of  a  French  play, 
45;  on  his  work  and  money  affairs, 
(  48,  49;  on  Blanche  Amory  and 
Pendennis,  55;  at  the  Reform  ban- 
quet, 58;  on  "David  Copperfield," 
59;  at  Spencer  Cowper's  dinner, 
61;  at  Brighton,  67;  on  his  work 
on  "Pendennis,"  71,  73;  on  Dick- 
ens, 74;  on  old  friendships,  75;  in 


Paris  again,  79;  visits  Jules  Janin, 
79;  on  his  artist  life  in  Paris,  82; 
on  a  rumor  of  his  death,  86;  his 
poem,  "A  Failure,"  88;  his  fear 
of  loss  of  memory,  90;  in  a  French 
green-room,  94;  iiis  Christmas  let- 
ter, 100;  on  his  work,  103,  104;  on 
a  ride  and  the  characters  met  in 
it,    108;    in    Paris    again,    110;    on 

.  d'Orsay,  118;  at  a  French  ball, 
121;  at  Cambridge,  124;  his 
"  smash "  at  the  Literary  Fund, 
128;  on  a  visit  to  an  emigrant 
ship,  132;  his  review  of  Fielding 
in  the  Times,  133;  on  handwritings, 
137;  on  funerals,  137;  his  ode  for 
the  Exhibition,  140  et  seq.;  on  the 
exhibition,  142  et  seq.;  on  mysticism, 
147;  on  the  Rhine,  151;  at  Wies- 
baden, 152;  at  Heidelberg,  152;  at 
Berne,  155;  on  his  fortieth  birthday, 
155;  at  Lucerne,  157;  in  Paris  again, 
159;  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Brook- 
field's  father,  165;  in  New  York, 
166;  his  lectures  there,  168  et  seq.; 
in  Philadelphia,  170;  in  Baltimore 
and  Washington,  173;  his  opinion 
of  American  cities,  174;  on  his  lec- 
tures, 176;  at  Richmond,  176;  at 
Savannah,  177;  on  the  Satiirday 
Review's  criticisms,  179;  his  imagi- 
nary letter  from  New  York,  181; 
his  resignation  from  Punch,  183; 
anecdotes  of,  185  et  seq. 

Thackeray,  Dr.,  126 

Tidy,  Mrs.,  52 

Trench,  Richard  Chenevix,  164 

TuRPiN,  Mrs.  Brookfield's  maid,  27, 
99 

"  Vanity     Fair,"     the     Spectator's 

notice  of,  12,  33  n.,  187 
ViLLiERS,  Charles,  106,  110 

Waldegrave,  Lady,  114 
Washington,  Thackeray  at,  173 
Whitmore,  Mrs.,  78 
Wiesbaden,  Thackeray  at,  152 
Wilmot,  Foley,  161 


CRITICAL  REVIEWS 


OF 


BOOKS  AND   PICTURES 


CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

OF 

BOOKS  AND  PICTURES 


FASHNABLE  FAX  AND  POLITE 
ANNYGOATS 

BY    CHARLES    YELLOWPLUSH,    ESQ. 

No. — ,  Grosvenor  Square:   lOth  October. 
{KB.  Hairy  Bell.) 

MY  DEAR  Y.— Your  dellixy  in  sending  me  " My 
Book"^  does  you  honour;  for  the  subjick  on 
which  it  treats  cannot,  hke  politix,  metafizzix,  or  other 
silly  sciences,  be  criticised  by  the  common  writin  creaturs 
who  do  your  and  other  Magazines  at  so  much  a  yard. 
I  am  a  chap  of  a  diiFerent  sort.  I  have  lived  with  some 
of  the  first  families  in  Europe,  and  I  say  it,  without  fear 
of  contradistinction,  that,  since  the  death  of  George  the 
IV.,  and  Mr.  Simpson  of  Voxall  Gardens,  there  doesn't, 
prajDS,  live  a  more  genlmnly  man  than  myself.  As  to 
figger,  I  beat  Simpson  all  to  shivers ;  and  know  more  of 
the  world  than  the  late  George.  He  did  things  in  a 
handsome  style  enouorh,  but  he  lived  always  in  one  set, 
and  got  narrow  in  his  notions.  How  could  he  be  other- 
wise?   Had  he  my  opportunities,  I  say  he  would  have 

^  My  Book;  or.  The  Anatomy  of  Conduct.     By  John  Henry  Skelton. 
London:  Simpkin  and  Marshall.     1837. 

199 


200  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

been  a  better  dressed  man,  a  better  dined  man  ('poor 
angsy  deer,  as  the  French  say),  and  a  better  furnitured 
man.  These  qualities  an't  got  by  indolence,  but  by  acute 
hobservation  and  foring  travel,  as  I  have  had.  But  a 
truce  to  heggotism,  and  let  us  proceed  with  bisniss. 

Skelton's  "Anatomy"  (or  Skeleton's,  which,  I  pre- 
sume, is  his  real  name)  is  a  work  which  has  been  long 
wanted  in  the  littery  world.  A  reglar  slap-up,  no- 
mistake,  out-an'-out  account  of  the  manners  and  usitches 
of  genteel  society,  will  be  appreciated  in  every  famly 
from  Buckly  Square  to  Whitechapel  Market.  Ever 
since  you  sent  me  the  volum,  I  have  read  it  to  the 
gals  in  our  hall,  who  are  quite  delighted  of  it,  and  every 
day  grows  genteeler  and  genteeler.  So  is  Jeames,  coach- 
man; so  is  Sam  and  George,  and  little  Half  red,  the 
sugar-loafed  page: — all  'xcept  old  Huffy,  the  fat  veezy 
porter,  who  sits  all  day  in  his  hall-chair,  and  never  reads 
a  word  of  any  think  but  that  ojus  Hage  newspaper. 
"  Huffy,"  I  often  say  to  him,  "  why  continue  to  read 
that  blaggerd  print?  Want  of  decency,  Huffy,  becomes 
no  man  in  your  high  situation :  a  genlman  without  moral- 
lity,  is  like  a  liv'ry-coat  without  a  shoulder-knot."  But 
the  old-fashioned  beast  reads  on,  and  don't  care  for  a 
syllable  of  what  I  say.  As  for  the  Sat'rist,  that's  differ- 
ent :  I  read  it  myself,  reg'lar ;  for  it's  of  uncompromising 
Raddicle  principils,  and  lashes  the  vices  of  the  arristoxy. 
But  again  I  am  diverging  from  Skeleton. 

What  I  like  about  him  so  pertiklerly  is  his  moddisty. 
Before  you  come  to  the  book,  there  is,  fust,  a  Deddica- 
tion;  then,  a  Preface;  and  nex',  a  Prolygomeny.  The 
fust  is  about  hisself ;  the  second  about  hisself,  too;  and, 
cuss  me!  if  the  Prolygolygominy  an't  about  hisself 
again,  and  his  schoolmaster,  the  Rev.  John  Finlay,  late 


FAX  AXD  ANXYGOATS  201 

of  Streatham  Academy.    I  shall  give  a  few  extrax  from 
them: — 

"  Graceful  manners  are  not  intuitive :  so  he,  who,  through  in- 
dustry or  the  smiles  of  fortune,  would  emulate  a  polite  carriage, 
must  be  taught  not  to  outrage  propriety.  Many  topics  herein 
considered  have  been  discussed,  more  or  less  gravely  or  jocosely, 
according  as  the  subject-matter  admitted  the  varying  treatment. 
I  would  that  with  propriety  much  might  be  expunged,  but  that 
I  felt  it  is  all  required  from  the  nature  of  the  work.  The  public 
is  the  tribunal  to  which  I  appeal:  not  friendship,  but  public  at- 
testation, must  affix  the  signet  to  '  My  Book's  '  approval  or  con- 
demnation. Sheridan,  when  manager  of  Drury,  was  known  to 
say,  he  had  solicited  and  received  the  patronage  of  friends,  but 
from  the  public  only  had  he  found  support.  So  may  it  be  with 
me!" 

There's  a  sentence  for  you,  Mr.  Yorke !  ^  We  dis- 
puted about  it,  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  in  the 
servants'  hall.  INIiss  Simkins,  mj^  lady's  feel  de  chamber, 
says  it's  complete  ungramaticle,  as  so  it  is.  "I  would 
that,"  &c.,  "but  that,"  and  so  forth:  what  can  be  the 
earthly  meaning  of  it?  "Graceful  manners,"  says 
Skeleton,  "is  not  intuitive."  Xor  more  an't  grammar, 
Skelton;  sooner  than  make  a  fault  in  which,  I'd  knife 
my  fish,  or  malt  after  my  cheese. 

As  for  "  emulating  a  genteel  carriage,"  not  knowing 
what  that  might  mean,  wx  at  once  asked  Jim  Coachman ; 
but  neither  he  nor  his  helpers  could  help  us.  Jim  thinks 
it  was  a  baroosh;  cook  says,  a  brisky;  Sam,  the  stable- 
boy  (who,  from  living  chiefly  among  the  bosses  and 
things,  has  got  a  sad  low  way  of  talking) ,  said  it  was  all 
dicky,  and  bid  us  drive  on  to  the  nex'  page. 

*  Oliver  Yorke  was  the  well-known  pseudonym  of  the 
editor  of  Fraser's  Magazine, 


202  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

"  For  3'ears,  when  I  have  observed  anything  in  false  taste,  I 
have  remarked  that,  when  '  My  Book  '  makes  its  appearance,  such 
an  anomaly  will  be  discontinued ;  and,  instead  of  an  angry  reply, 
it  has  ever  been,  'What!  are  you  writing  such  a  work?'  till  at 
length,  in  several  societies, '  My  Book  '  has  been  referred  to  when- 
ever une  meprise  has  taken  place.  As  thus  '  "  My  Book  "  is,  in- 
deed, wanted ; '  or,  '  If  "  My  Book  "  were  here ;  '  or,  '  We  shall 
never  be  right  without  "  My  Book  "  ; '  which  led  me  to  take  min- 
utes of  the  barbarisms  I  observed.  I  now  give  them  to  the  world, 
from  a  conviction  that  a  rule  of  conduct  should  be  studied,  and 
impressed  upon  the  mind.  Other  studies  come  occasionally  into 
play ;  but  the  conduct,  the  deportment,  and  the  manner  are  ever 
in  view,  and  should  be  a  primary  consideration,  and  by  no  means 
left  to  chance  (as  at  present),  '  whether  it  be  good,  or  whether  it 
be  evil.' 

"  Most  books  that  have  appeared  on  this  vital  subject  have 
generally  been  of  a  trashy  nature ;  intended,  one  would  imagine — 
if  you  took  the  trouble  to  read  them — as  advertisements  to  this 
trade,  or  for  that  man,  this  draper,  or  that  dentist,  instead  of  at- 
tempting to  form  the  mind,  and  leaving  the  judgment  to  act. 

"  To  Lord  Chesterfield  other  remarks  apply :  but  Dr.  Johnson 
has  so  truly  and  so  wittily  characterised,  in  few  words,  that  heart- 
less libertine's  advice  to  his  son,  that,  without  danger  of  corrupt- 
ing the  mind,  you  cannot  place  his  works  in  the  hands  of  youth. 

"  It  should  ever  be  kept  in  our  recollection,  that  a  graceful  car- 
riage—  a  noble  bearing,  and  a  generous  disposition  to  sit  with 
ease  and  grace,  must  be  enthroned  '  in  the  mind's  eye  '  on  every 
virtuous  sentiment." 

There  it  is,  the  carriage  again !  But  never  mind  that 
— to  the  nex'  sentence  it's  nothink :  "  to  sit  with  ease 
and  grace  must  be  enthroned  '  in  the  mind's  eye '  on 
every  virtuous  sentiment!"  Heaven  bless  your  bones, 
Mr.  Skeleton!  where  are  you  driving  us?  I  say,  this 
sentence  would  puzzle  the  very  Spinx  himself!     How 


FAX  AND  ANNYGOATS  203 

can  a  man  sit  in  his  eye?  If  the  late  Mr.  Finlaj'',  of 
Streatham  Academy,  taught  John  Henry  Anatomy 
Skeleton  to  do  this,  he's  a  very  wonderful  pupil,  and  no 
mistake!  as  well  as  a  finominy  in  natural  history,  quite 
exceeding  that  of  jNIiss  JNIackavoy.  Sich  peculiar  op- 
portunities for  hobservation  must  make  his  remarks 
really  valuable.^ 

Well,  he  observes  on  every  think  that  is  at  all  observ- 
able, and  can  make  a  gen'l'man  fit  for  gen'l'manly  soci- 
ety. Plis  beayviour  at  dinner  and  brexfast,  at  bawls 
and  swarries,  at  chuch,  at  vist,  at  skittles,  at  drivin'  cabs, 
at  gettin'  in  an'  out  of  a  carriage,  at  his  death  and  burill 
— givin',  on  every  one  of  these  subjicks,  a  plenty  of  ex- 
'lent  maxums;  as  we  shall  very  soon  see.  Let's  begin 
about  dinner — it's  always  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  talk 
of.     Skeleton  (who  is  a  slap-up  heppycure)  says: — 

"  Earn  the  reputation  of  being  a  good  carver ;  it  is  a  weakness 
to  pretend  superiority  to  an  art  in  such  constant  requisition,  and 
on  which  so  much  enjoyment  depends.  You  must  not  crowd  the 
plate — send  only  a  moderate  quantity,  with  fat  and  gravy ;  in 
short,  whatever  you  may  be  carving,  serve  others  as  if  you  were 
helping  yourself:  this  may  be  done  with  rapidity,  if  the  carver 
takes  pleasure  in  his  province,  and  endeavours  to  excel.  It  is 
cruel  and  disgusting  to  send  a  lump  of  meat  to  anyone :  if  at  the 
table  of  a  friend,  it  is  offensive ;  if  at  your  own,  unpardonable. 
No  refined  appetite  can  survive  it." 

^  I  canot  refrain  from  quattin,  in  a  note,  the  following  extract,  from 
page  8:— 

"  To  be  done  with  propriety,  everjiihing  must  be  done  quietly.  When  the 
cards  are  dealt  round  do  not  sort  them  in  all  possible  haste,  and,  having  per- 
formed it  in  a  most  hurried  manner,  clap  your  cards  on  the  table,  looking 
proudly  round,  conscious  of  your  own  superiority.  I  speak  to  those  in  good 
society,— not  to  him  who,  making  cards  his  trade,  has  his  motives  for  thus 
hurrying,— that  he  may  remark  the  countenances  of  those  with  whom  he 
plays — that  he  may  make  observations  in  Ms  mind's  eye,  from  what  passes 
around,  and  use  those  observations  to  suit  ulterior  ends." 

This,  now,  is  what  I  call  a  reg'lar  parrylel  passidge,  and  renders  quite  clear 
Mr.  Skeltonses  notin  of  the  situation  of  the  mind's  eye.— Chas.  Ylplsh. 


204  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Taken  in  general,  I  say  this  remark  is  admiral.  I 
saw  an  instance,  only  last  wick,  at  our  table.  There  was, 
first.  Sir  James  and  my  lady,  in  course,  at  the  head  of 
their  own  table;  then  there  was  Lord  and  Lady  Smig- 
smag  right  and  left  of  my  lady ;  Captain  Flupp,  of  the 
huzzas  (huzza  he  may  be;  but  he  looks,  to  my  thinkin, 
more  like  a  bravo)  ;  and  the  Bishop  of  BifFeter,  with 
his  lady;  Haldermin  Snodgrass,  and  me — that  is,  I 
waited. 

Well,  the  haldermin,  who  was  helpin  the  tuttle,  puts 
on  BifFeter's  plate  a  wad  of  green  fat,  which  might  way 
a  pound  and  three-quarters.  His  ludship  goes  at  it  very 
hearty;  but  not  likin  to  separate  it,  tries  to  swallow  the 
lump  at  one  go.  I  recklect  Lady  Smigsmag  saying 
gaily,  "  What,  my  lord,  are  you  goin  that  whole  hog  at 
once?"  The  bishop  looked  at  her,  rowled  his  eyes,  and 
tried  to  spick;  but  between  the  spickin  and  swallerin, 
and  the  green  fat,  the  consquinsies  were  f atle !  He  sunk 
back  on  his  chair,  his  spoon  dropt,  his  face  became  of  a 
blew  colour,  and  down  he  fell  as  dead  as  a  nit.  He  re- 
covered, to  be  sure,  nex  day ;  but  not  till  after  a  precious 
deal  of  bleedin  and  dosin,  which  Dr.  Drencher  described 
for  him. 

This  would  never  have  happened,  had  not  the  halder- 
min given  him  such  a  plate-full ;  and  to  Skeleton's  maxim 
let  me  add  mine. 

Dinner  was  made  for  eatin,  not  for  talkin:  never  pay 
compliments  with  your  mouth  full. 


a 


The  person  carving  must  bear  in  mind  that  a  knife  is  a  saw, 
by  which  means  it  will  never  slip ;  and  should  it  be  blunt,  or  the 
meat  overdone,  he  will  succeed  neatly  and  expertly,  while  others 
are  unequal  to  the  task.  For  my  part,  I  have  been  accustomed 
to  think  I  could  carve  any  meat,  with  any  knife;  but  lately,  in 


FAX  AND  ANNYGOATS  205 

France,  I  have  found  my  mistake — for  the  meat  was  so  overdone, 
and  the  knives  so  blunt,  that  the  little  merit  I  thought  I  possessed 
completely  failed  me.  Such  was  never  the  case  with  any  knife  I 
ever  met  with  in  England. 

"  Pity  that  there  is  not  a  greater  reciprocit}^  in  the  world ! 
How  much  would  France  be  benefited  by  the  introduction  of  our 
cutlery  and  woollens ;  and  we  by  much  of  its  produce ! 

"  When  the  finger-glass  is  placed  before  you,  you  must  not 
drink  the  contents,  or  even  rinse  your  mouth,  and  spit  it  back; 
although  this  has  been  done  by  some  inconsiderate  persons. 
Never,  in  short,  do  that  of  which,  on  reflection,  you  would  be 
ashamed;  for  instance,  never  help  yourself  , to  salt  with  your 
knife — a  thing  which  is  not  infrequently  done  in  la  belle  France 
in  the  '  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great.'  We  all  have  much  to 
unlearn,  ere  we  can  learn  much  that  we  should.  My  effort  is  '  to 
gather  up  the  tares,  and  bind  them  in  bundles  to  destroy  them/ 
and  then  to  *  gather  the  wheat  into  the  barn.' 

"  When  the  rose-water  is  carried  round  after  dinner,  dip  into 
it  the  corner  of  your  napkin  lightly;  touch  the  tips  of  your 
fingers,  and  press  the  napkin  on  your  lips.  Forbear  plunging 
into  the  liquid  as  into  a  bath." 

This,  to  be  sure,  would  be  difRklt,  as  well  as  ungenl- 
mnly ;  and  I  have  something  to  say  on  this  head,  too. 

About  them  blue  water  bowls  which  are  brought  in 
after  dinner,  and  in  which  the  company  makes  such  a 
bubblin  and  spirtin;  people  should  be  very  careful  in 
usin  them,  and  mind  how  they  hire  short-sighted  ser- 
vants. Lady  Smigsmag  is  a  melancholy  instance  of 
this.  Her  ladyship  wears  two  rows  of  false  teeth  (what 
the  French  call  a  rattler),  and  is,  everybody  knows,  one 
of  the  most  absint  of  women.  After  dinner  one  day 
(at  her  own  house),  she  whips  out  her  teeth,  and  puts 
them  into  the  blue  bowl,  as  she  always  did,  when  the 
squirtin  time  came.    Well,  the  conversation  grew  hani- 


206  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

mated;  and  so  much  was  Lady  Smigsmag  interested, 
that  she  clean  forgot  her  teeth,  and  wen  to  bed  without 
them. 

Nex  morning  was  a  dreadful  disturbance  in  the  house ; 
sumbady  had  stolen  my  lady's  teeth  out  of  her  mouth! 
But  this  is  a  loss  which  a  lady  don't  like  positively  to 
advertise;  so  the  matter  was  hushed  up,  and  my  lady 
got  a  new  set  from  Parkison's.  But  nobody  ever  knew 
who  was  the  thief  of  the  teeth. 

A  fortnight  after,  another  dinner  was  given.  Lady 
Smigsmag  only  kep  a  butler  and  one  man,  and  this  was 
a  chap  whom  we  used  to  call,  professionally.  Lazy  Jim. 
He  never  did  nothing  but  when  he  couldn't  help  it;  he 
was  as  lazy  as  a  dormus,  and  as  blind  as  a  howl.  If  the 
plate  was  dirty,  Jim  never  touched  it  until  the  day  it 
was  wanted,  and  the  same  he  did  by  the  glas ;  you  might 
go  into  his  pantry,  and  see  dozens  on  'em  with  the  water 
(he  drenk  up  all  the  wind)  which  had  been  left  in  'em 
since  last  dinner  party.  How  such  things  could  be  al- 
lowed in  a  house,  I  don't  know;  it  only  shewed  that 
Smigsmag  was  an  easy  master,  and  that  Higgs,  the 
butler,  didn't  know  his  bisniss. 

Well,  the  day  kem  for  the  sek'nd  party.  Lazy  Jim's 
plate  was  all  as  dutty  as  pos'bil,  and  his  whole  work  to 
do;  he  cleaned  up  the  plate,  the  glas,  and  every  think 
else,  as  he  thought,  and  set  out  the  trays  and  things  on 
the  sideboard.  "  Law,  Jim,  you  jackass,"  cried  out  the 
butler,  at  half -past  seven,  jist  as  the  people  was  a  comen 
down  to  dinner;  "you've  forgot  the  washand  basins." 

Jim  spun  down  into  his  room, — for  he'd  forgotten 
'em,  sure  enough ;  there  they  were,  however,  on  his  shelf, 
and  full  of  water:  so  he  brought  em  up,  and  said  no- 
think;  but  gev  'em  a  polishin  wipe  with  the  tail  of  his 
coat. 


FAX   AND   ANNYGOATS  207 

Down  kem  the  company  to  dinner,  and  set  to  it  like 
good  uns.  The  society  was  reg'lar  distangy  (as  they 
say)  :  there  was  the  Duke  of  Haldersgit,  Lord  and 
Lady  Barbikin,  Sir  Gregory  Jewin,  and  Lady  Suky 
Smithfield,  asides  a  lot  of  commontators.  The  dinner 
was  removed,  and  the  bubble  and  squeakers  (as  I  call 
'em)  put  down;  and  all  the  people  began  a  washin  them- 
selves, like  any  think.  "Whrrrrr!"  went  Lady  Smig- 
smag;  "  Cloocloocloocloophizz ! "  says  Lady  Barbikin; 
"  Goggleoggleoggleblrrawaw ! "  says  Jewin  (a  very  fat 
g'n'l'm'n),  "  Blobblobgob ! "  began  his  Grace  of  Hal- 
dersgit, who  has  got  the  widest  mouth  in  all  the  peeridge, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped,  down  went  his  wash- 
and-basin,  and  he  gev  such  a  piercing  shriek!  such  a 
bust  of  agony  as  I  never  saw,  excep  when  the  prince 
sees  the  ghost  in  "Hamlick":  down  went  his  basin,  and 
up  went  his  eyes;  I  really  thought  he  was  going  to 
vomick ! 

I  rushed  up  to  his  Grace,  squeeging  him  in  the 
shoulders,  and  patting  him  on  the  back.  Every  body 
was  in  alarm;  the  duke  as  pale  as  hashes,  grinding  his 
teeth,  frowning,  and  makin  the  most  frightful  extor- 
tions: the  ladis  were  in  astarrix;  and  I  observed  Lazy 
Jim  leaning  against  the  sideboard,  and  looking  as  white 
as  chock. 

I  looked  into  his  Grace's  plate,  and,  on  my  honour  as  a 
gnlmn,  among  the  amins  and  reasons,  there  was  two 

rows  of  TEETH ! 

"Law! — heavens! — what! — your  Grace! — is  it  pos- 
sible?" said  Lady  Smigsmag,  puttin  her  hand  into  the 
duke's  plate.  "  Dear  Duke  of  Aldersgate !  as  I  live,  they 
are  my  lost  teeth! " 

Flesh  and  blud  coodn't  stand  this,  and  I  bust  out  laffin, 


208  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

till  I  thought  I  should  split;  a  footman's  a  man,  and  as 
impregnable  as  hany  other  to  the  ridiklous.  I  bust,  and 
every  body  bust  after  me— lords  and  ladies,  duke  and 
butler,  and  all — every  body  excep  Lazy  Jim. 

Would  vou  blieve  it?  He  hadnt  cleaned  out  the 
glasses,  and  the  company  was  a  washin  themselves  in 
second-hand  water ,  a  fortnit  old! 

I  don't  wish  to  insinuate  that  this  kind  of  thing  is 
general;  only  people  had  better  take  warnin  by  me  and 
Mr.  Skeleton,  and  wash  theirselves  at  home.  Lazy 
Jeames  was  turned  off  the  nex  morning,  took  to  drinkin 
and  evil  habits,  and  is  now,  in  consquints,  a  leftenant- 
general  in  the  Axillary  Legend.  Let's  now  get  on  to 
what  Skelton  calls  his  "Derelictions" — here's  some  of 
'em,  and  very  funny  one's  they  are  too.  What  do  you 
think  of  Number  1,  by  way  of  a  dereliction? 

"  1.  A  knocker  on  the  door  of  a  lone  house  In  the  country. 

"  2.  When  on  horseback,  to  be  followed  by  a  groom  in  a  fine 
livery ;  or,  when  in  your  gig  or  cab,  with  a  '  tiger '  so  adorned  by 
your  side.  George  IV.,  whose  taste  was  never  excelled,  if  ever 
equalled,  always,  excepting  on  state  occasions,  exhibited  his  ret- 
inue in  plain  liveries — a  grey  frock  being  the  usual  dress  of  his 
grooms. 

"  4.  To  elbow  people  as  you  walk  is  rude.  For  such  uncouth 
beings,  perhaps,  a  good  thrashing  would  be  the  best  monitor; 
only  there  might  be  disagreeables  attending  the  correction,  in 
the  shape  of  legal  functionaries. 

"  9.  When  riding  with  a  companion,  be  not  two  or  three  horse- 
lengths  before  or  behind. 

"  10.  When  walking  with  one  friend,  and  you  encounter  an- 
other, although  you  may  stop  and  speak,  never  introduce  the 
strangers,  unless  each  expresses  a  wish  to  that  effect. 

"  13.  Be  careful  to  check  vulgarities  in  children;  for  instance: 


FAX   AND   AXXYGOATS  209 

'Tom,  did  you  get  wet?' — 'No;  Bob  did,  but  I  cut  away.' 
You  should  also  affectionately  rebuke  an  unbecoming  tone  and 
manner  in  children. 

"  18.  To  pass  a  glass,  or  any  drinking  vessel,  by  the  brim,  or 
to  offer  a  lady  a  bumper,  are  things  equally  in  bad  taste. 

"  19.  To  look  from  the  window  to  ascertain  who  has  knocked, 
whilst  the  servant  goes  to  the  door,  must  not  be  done. 

"  26.  Humming,  drumming,  or  whistling,  we  must  avoid,  as 
disrespectful  to  our  company. 

"  27.  Never  whisper  in  company,  nor  make  confidants  of  mere 
acquaintance. 

"  28.  Vulgar  abbi'eviations,  such  as  gent  for  gentleman,  or 
buss  for  omnibus,  &c.,  must  be  shunned. 

"  29.  Make  no  noise  in  eating :  as,  when  3'ou  masticate  with  the 
lips  unclosed,  the  action  of  the  jaw  is  heard.  It  is  equally  bad  in 
drinking.  Gulping  loudly  is  abominable — it  is  but  habit — un- 
restrained, no  more ;  but  enough  to  disgust. 

"  30.  To  do  anything  that  might  be  obnoxious  to  censure,  or 
even  bear  animadversion  from  eccentricity,  you  must  take  care 
not  to  commit. 

"  31.  Be  especially  cautious  not  to  drink  while  your  plate  is 
sent  to  be  replenished. 

"  32.  A  bright  light  in  a  dirty  lamp  ^  is  not  to  be  endured. 

"  33.  The  statue  of  the  Achilles  in  Hyde  Park  is  in  bad  taste. 
To  erect  a  statue  in  honour  of  a  hero  in  a  defensive  attitude, 
when  his  good  sword  has  carved  his  renown  —  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Ha,  ha,  ha!  isn't  that  reg'lar  ridiklous?  not  the 
statute  I  mean,  but  the  dereliction,  as  Skillyton  calls  it. 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  indeed !  Defensive  hattitude !  He  may  call 
that  nasty  naked  figger  ^6'fensive — I  say  its  hoffens'ive, 
and  no  mistake.  But  read  the  whole  bunch  of  remarx, 
Mr.  Yorke;  a'nt  they  rich? — a'nt  they  what  you  may 
call  a  jDcrfect  gallixy  of  derelictions? 

^ "  If  in  the  hall,  or  in  your  cab,  this,  if  seen  a  second  time, 
admits   no   excuse:    turn  away    the   man."   , 


210  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Take,  for  instance,  twenty-nine  and  thutty-one— gul- 
pins,  mastigatin,  and  the  haction  of  the  jaw!  Why,  sich 
things  a'nt  done,  not  by  the  knife-boy,  and  the  skillery- 
made,  who  dine  in  the  back  kitchin  after  we've  done! 
And  nex  appeal  to  thutty-one.  Why  shouldn't  a  man 
drink,  when  his  plate's  taken  away?  Is  it  unnatral? 
is  it  ungen'm'n'ly  ?  is  it  unbecomin?  If  he'd  said  that  a 
chap  shouldn't  drink  when  his  glass  is  taken  away,  that 
would  be  a  reason,  and  a  good  one.  Now  let's  read 
"hayteen."  Pass  a  glass  by  the  hriml  Put  your  thum 
and  fingers,  I  spose.  The  very  notin  makes  me  all  ever 
uncomf  rble ;  and,  in  all  my  experience  of  society,  I  never 
saw  no  not  a  coalheaver  do  such  a  thing.    Nex  comes:  — 

"  The  most  barbarous  modern  introduction  is  the  habit  of 
wearing  the  hat  in  the  '  salon,'  as  now  practised  even  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  ladies. 

"  When,  in  making  a  morning  call,  you  give  your  card  at  the 
door,  the  servant  should  be  instructed  to  do  his  duty,  and  not 
stand  looking  at  the  name  on  the  card  while  you  speak  to  him." 

There's  two  rules  for  you!  Who  does  wear  a  hat 
in  the  salong?  Nobody,  as  I  ever  saw.  And  as  for 
Number  40,  I  can  only  say,  on  my  own  part  individ- 
iwidiwally,  and  on  the  part  of  the  perfession,  that  if  ever 
Mr.  Skelton  comes  to  a  house  where  I  am  the  gen'l'm'n 
to  open  the  door,  and  instrux  me  about  doing  my  duty, 
I'll  instruct  him  about  the  head,  I  will.  No  man  should 
instruct  other  people's  servants.  No  man  should  bully 
or  talk  loud  to  a  gen'l'm'n  who,  from  his  wery  situation, 
is  hincapable  of  defense  or  reply.  I've  known  this  cistim 
to  be  carried  on  by  low  swaggerin  fellars  in  clubbs  and 
privit  houses  but  never  by  reel  gen'l'm'n.  And  now 
for  the  last  maxum,  or  dereliction:— 


FAX   AND   ANNYGOATS  211 

"  The  custom  of  putting  the  knife  in  the  mouth  is  so  repulsive 
to  our  feeHngs  as  men,  is  so  entirely  at  variance  with  the  manners 
of  gentlemen,  that  I  deem  it  unnecessary  to  inveigh  against  it 
here.    The  very  appearance  of  the  act  is — 

*  A  monster  of  so  odious  mien, 
That  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen.'  " 

Oh,  heavens!  the  notion  is  overpowerin!  I  once  see  a 
gen'l'm'n  cut  his  head  off  eating  peez  that  way.  Knife 
in  your  mouth! — oh! — fawgh! — it  makes  me  all  over. 
Mrs.  Cook,  do  have  the  kindniss  to  git  me  a  basin! 

'^t  ■T"  fl*  1*  'N 

In  this  abrupt  way  ]Mr.  Yellowplush's  article  con- 
cludes. The  notion  conveyed  in  the  last  paragraph  was 
too  disgusting  for  his  delicate  spirit,  and  caused  him 
emotions  that  are  neither  pleasant  to  experience  nor  to 
describe. 

It  may  be  objected  to  his  communication,  that  it  con- 
tains some  orthographic  eccentricities,  and  that  his  acute- 
ness  surpasses  considerably  his  education.  But  a  gentle- 
man of  his  rank  and  talent  was  the  exact  person  fitted 
to  criticise  the  volume  which  forms  the  subject  of  his  re- 
marks. We  at  once  saw  that  only  jNIr.  Yellowplush 
was  fit  for  Mr.  Skelton,  JNIr.  Skelton  for  Mr.  Yellow- 
plush. There  is  a  luxury  of  fashionable  observation,  a 
fund  of  apt  illustration,  an  intimacy  with  the  first  leaders 
of  the  ton,  and  a  richness  of  authentic  anecdote,  which 
is  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  writer  of  any  other  peri- 
odical. He  who  looketh  from  a  tower  sees  more  of  the 
battle  than  the  knights  and  captains  engaged  in  it ;  and, 
in  like  manner,  he  who  stands  behind  a  fashionable  table 
knows  more  of  societj^  than  the  guests  who  sit  at  the 
board.     It  is  from  this  source  that  our  great  novel- 


212  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

writers  have  drawn  their  experience,  retaihng  the  truths 
which  they  learned. 

It  is  not  impossible  that  Mr.  Yellowplush  may  con- 
tinue his  communications,  when  we  shall  be  able  to 
present  the  reader  with  the  only  authentic  picture  of 
fashionable  life  which  has  been  given  to  the  world  in  our 
time.  All  the  rest  are  stolen  and  disfigured  copies  of 
that  original  piece,  of  which  we  are  proud  to  be  in  pos- 
session. 

After  our  contributor's  able  critique,  it  is  needless  for 
us  to  extend  our  remarks  upon  Mr.  Skelton's  book.  We 
have  to  thank  that  gentleman  for  some  hours'  extraordi- 
nary amusement;  and  shall  be  delighted  at  any  further 
productions  of  his  pen. 

O.  Y. 
{Fraser^s  Magazine,  November  1837.) 


JEROME   PATUROT 

WITH    CONSIDERATIONS    ON    NOVELS    IN    GENERAL— IN    A 
LETTER    FROM    M.    A.    TITMARSH 

Paris:  July  20th 

IF  I  had  been  his  Majesty  Louis  PhiHppe,  and  the 
caricaturist  had  made  fun  of  me  ever  so,  I  would, 
for  the  sake  of  the  country,  have  put  up  with  the  insult 
— ay,  perhaps  gone  a  little  farther,  and  encouraged  it. 
I  would  be  a  good  king,  and  give  a  premium  to  any  fel- 
low who,  for  a  certain  number  of  hours,  could  make  a 
certain  number  of  my  subjects  laugh.  I  would  take  the 
Salle  des  Pas  Perdus,  and  have  an  exhibition  of  carica- 
ture-cartoons, with  a  dozen  of  handsome  prizes  for  the 
artists  who  should  invent  the  dozen  ugliest  likenesses 
of  me.  But,  wise  as  the  French  king  proverbially  is, 
he  has  not  attained  this  degree  of  wisdom.  Let  a  poor 
devil  but  draw  the  royal  face  like  a  pear  now,  or  in  the 
similitude  of  a  brioche,  and  he,  his  printer,  and  publisher, 
are  clapped  into  prison  for  months,  severe  fines  are  im- 
posed upon  them,  their  wives  languish  in  their  absence, 
their  children  are  deprived  of  their  bread,  and,  pressing 
round  the  female  author  of  their  days,  say  sadly, 
"  Maman,  ou  est  notre  pere? " 

It  ought  not  to  be  so.  Laughing  never  did  harm  to 
anyone  yet;  or  if  laughing  does  harm,  and  kings'  majes- 
ties suffer  from  the  exhibition  of  caricatures,  let  them 
suffer.     Mon  Dieu!  it  is  the  lesser  evil  of  the  two. 

213 


214  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Majesties  are  to  be  had  any  day;  but  many  a  day  passes 
without  a  good  joke.    Let  us  cherish  those  that  come. 

Indeed,  I  am  incHned  to  beheve  that  the  opinion  com- 
monly held  about  the  gaiete  Franfaise  is  no  more  than  a 
mystification,  a  vulgar  practical  joke  of  the  sort  which 
the  benevolent  mind  abhors.  For  it  is  a  shame  to  prom- 
ise us  something  pleasant,  and  then  disappoint  us.  Men 
and  children  feel  in  this  matter  alike.  To  give  a  child 
an  egg-shell,  under  pretence  that  it  is  an  egg,  is  a  joke; 
but  the  child  roars  in  reply,  and  from  such  joking  the 
gentle  spirit  turns  away  abashed,  disgusted. 

So  about  the  gaiete  Fran  false.  We  are  told  that  it 
still  exists,  and  are  invited  by  persons  to  sit  down  and 
make  a  meal  of  it.  But  it  is  almost  all  gone.  Some- 
body has  scooped  out  all  the  inside  and  swallowed  it, 
and  left  only  the  shell  behind.  I  declare,  for  my  part, 
I  know  few  countries  where  there  is  less  joking  than  in 
France;  it  is  of  a  piece  with  the  boasted  amenity  and 
politeness  of  the  Gauls.  Really  and  truly,  there  is 
more  real  and  true  politeness  in  Wapping  than  in 
the  Champs  Elysees.  People  whom  the  stranger  ad- 
dresses give  him  civil  answers,  and  they  are  leaving  off 
this  in  France.  Men  in  Wapping  do  not  jostle  ladies 
off  the  street,  and  this  they  do  in  France,  where  the 
charcoal-man,  drinking  at  the  corner  of  the  wine-shop, 
will  let  a  lady's  muslin  slip  into  the  gutter  rather  than 
step  aside  an  inch  to  allow  her  to  pass. 

In  the  matter  of  novels  especially,  the  national  jocu- 
larity has  certainly  passed  away.  Paul  de  Kock  writes 
now  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  make  you  laugh,  but  to 
make  you  blush  for  the  intolerable  vulgarity  of  the  man. 
His  last  book  is  so  little  humorous,  that  even  the  Eng- 
lish must  give  him  up— the  English,  whose  island  is  said 


JEROME   PATUROT  215 

after  dinner  to  "be  the  home  of  the  world,"  and  who 
certainly  gave  IMonsieur  Paul  a  very  hearty  welcome.  In 
his  own  country  this  prophet  has  never  been  much  hon- 
oured. People  sneer  at  his  simple  tricks  for  exciting 
laughter,  and  detect  a  vulgarity  of  style  which  the  for- 
eigner is  not  so  ready  to  understand.  And  as  one  has 
seen  many  a  vulgar  fellow  who  dropped  his  h's,  and  came 
from  Hislington,  received  with  respect  by  foreigners, 
and  esteemed  as  a  person  of  fashion,  so  we  are  on  our 
side  slow  in  distinguishing  the  real  and  sham  foreign 
gentleman. 

Besides  Paul  de  Kock,  there  is  another  humorous 
writer  of  a  very  different  sort,  and  whose  works  have  of 
late  found  a  considerable  popularity  among  us — Mon- 
sieur de  Bernard.  He  was  first  discovered  by  one 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  who  wrote  a  critique  on  one 
of  his  works,  and  pilfered  one  of  his  stories.  Mrs.  Gore 
followed  him  by  "editing"  Bernard's  novel  of  "  Ger- 
feuil,"  which  was  badly  translated,  and  pronounced  by 
the  press  to  be  immoral.  It  may  be  so  in  certain  details, 
but  it  is  not  immoral  in  tendency.  It  is  full  of  fine  ob- 
servation and  gentle  feeling ;  it  has  a  gallant  sense  of  the 
absurd,  and  is  written — rare  quality  for  a  French  ro- 
mance— in  a  gentlemanlike  style. 

Few  celebrated  modern  French  romance-writers  can 
say  as  much  for  themselves.  Monsieur  Sue  has  tried 
almost  always,  and,  in  "Mathilde,"  very  nearly  suc- 
ceeded, in  attaining  a  tone  of  bonne  compagnie.  But  his 
respect  for  lacqueys,  furniture,  carpets,  titles,  bouquets^ 
and  such  aristocratic  appendages,  is  too  great.  He  slips 
quietly  over  the  carpet,  and  peers  at  the  silk  hangings, 
and  looks  at  Lafleur  handing  about  the  tea-tray  with  too 
much  awe  for  a  gentleman.     He  is  in  a  flutter  in  the 


216  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

midst  of  his  marquesses  and  princes— happy,  clever, 
smihng,  but  uneasy.  As  for  De  Balzac,  he  is  not  fit  for 
the  salon.  In  point  of  gentility,  Dumas  is  about  as  gen- 
teel as  a  courier;  and  Frederic  Soulie  as  elegant  as  a 
Jiuissier. 

These  are  hard  words.  But  a  hundred  years  hence 
(when,  of  course,  the  frequenters  of  the  circulating  li- 
brary will  be  as  eager  to  read  the  works  of  Soulie,  Du- 
mas, and  the  rest,  as  now) ,  a  hundred  years  hence,  what 
a  strange  opinion  the  world  will  have  of  the  French 
society  of  to-day!  Did  all  married  people,  we  may  im- 
agine they  will  ask,  break  a  certain  commandment? — 
They  all  do  in  the  novels.  Was  French  society  com- 
posed of  murderers,  of  forgers,  of  children  without  pa- 
rents, of  men  consequently  running  the  daily  risk  of 
marrying  their  grandmothers  by  mistake;  of  disguised 
princes,  who  lived  in  the  friendship  of  amiable  cut- 
throats and  spotless  prostitutes ;  who  gave  up  the  sceptre 
for  the  savate,  and  the  stars  and  pigtails  of  the  court 
for  the  chains  and  wooden  shoes  of  the  galleys?  All 
these  characters  are  quite  common  in  French  novels,  and 
France  in  the  nineteenth  century  was  the  politest  coun- 
try in  the  world.  What  must  the  rest  of  the  world  have 
been? 

Indeed,  in  respect  to  the  reading  of  novels  of  the  pres- 
ent day,  I  would  be  glad  to  suggest  to  the  lovers  of  these 
instructive  works  the  simple  plan  of  always  looking  at 
the  end  of  a  romance,  to  see  what  becomes  of  the  per- 
sonages, before  they  venture  upon  the  whole  work,  and 
become  interested  in  the  characters  described  in  it.  Why 
interest  oneself  in  a  personage  who  you  know  must,  at  the 
end  of  the  third  volume,  die  a  miserable  death?  What  is 
the  use  of  making  oneself  unhajjpy  needlessly,  watching 


JEROME  PATUROT  217 

the  consumptive  symptoms  of  Leonora  as  they  manifest 
themselves,  or  tracing  Antonio  to  his  inevitable  assas- 
sination. 

Formerly,  whenever  I  came  to  one  of  these  fatally  vir- 
tuous characters  in  a  romance  (ladies  are  very  fond  of 
inventing  such  suffering  angels  in  their  novels,  pale, 
pious,  pulmonary,  crossed  in  love  of  course;  hence  I  do 
not  care  to  read  ladies'  novels,  except  those  of  Mesdames 
Gore  and  Trollope)  — whenever  I  came  to  one  of  those 
predestined  creatures,  and  saw  from  the  complexion  of 
the  story  that  the  personage  in  question  was  about  to  oc- 
cupy a  good  deal  of  the  reader's  attention,  I  always 
closed  the  book  at  once,  and  in  disgust,  for  my  feelings 
are  much  too  precious  to  be  agitated  at  threepence  per 
volume.  Even  then  it  was  often  too  late.  One  may 
have  got  through  half  a  volume  before  the  ultimate  fate 
of  Miss  Trevanion  was  made  clear  to  one.  In  that  half 
volume,  one  may  have  grown  to  be  exceedingly  inter- 
ested in  ]\Iiss  Trevanion ;  and  hence  one  has  all  the  pangs 
of  parting  with  her,  which  were  not  worth  incurring  for 
the  brief  pleasure  of  her  acquaintance.  Le  jeu  ne  valait 
pas  la  chandelle.  It  is  well  to  say,  I  never  loved  a  young 
gazelle  to  glad  me  wdth  his  dark  blue  eye,  but  when  he 
came  to  know  me  well  he  was  sure  to  die ;  and  to  add,  that 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower  but  'twas  the  first  to  fade 
away.  Is  it  not  better,  instead  of  making  yourself  un- 
happj%  as  you  inevitably  must  be,  to  spare  yourself  the 
trouble  of  this  bootless  affection  ?  Do  not  let  us  give  up 
our  affections  rashly  to  young  gazelles,  or  trees,  or  flow- 
ers ;  but  confine  our  tenderness  to  creatures  that  are  more 
long-lived. 

Therefore,  I  say,  it  is  much  better  to  look  at  the  end  of 
a  novel;  and  when  I  read,  "  There  is  a  fresh  green  mound 


218  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

in  Brentford  churchyard,  and  a  humble  stone,  on  which 
is  inscribed  the  name  of  'Anna  Maria;'"  or  "Le  jour 
apres  on  voyait  sur  les  dalles  humides  de  la  terrible 
Morgue  le  corps  virginal  et  ruisselant  de  Bathilde;"  or 
a  sentence  to  that  effect,  I  shut  the  book  at  once,  declin- 
ing to  agitate  my  feelings  needlessly;  for  at  that  stage 
I  do  not  care  a  fig  for  Anna  Maria's  consumption  or 
Bathilde's  suicide:  I  have  not  the  honour  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, nor  will  I  make  it.  If  you  had  the  gift  of 
prophecy,  and  people  proposed  to  introduce  you  to  a 
man  who  you  knew  would  borrow  money  of  you,  or 
would  be  inevitably  hanged,  or  would  subject  you  to 
some  other  annoyance,  would  you  not  decline  the  pro- 
posed introduction?  So  with  novels.  The  Book  of  Fate 
of  the  heroes  and  heroines  is  to  be  found  at  the  end  of 
Vol.  III.  One  has  but  to  turn  to  it  to  know  whether  one 
shall  make  their  acquaintance  or  not.  For  my  part,  I 
heartily  pardon  the  man  who  brought  Cordelia  to  life 
(was  it  Cibber,  or  Sternhold  and  Hopkins?).  I  would 
have  the  stomach-pump  brought  for  Romeo  at  the  fifth 
act;  for  Mrs.  Macbeth  I  am  not  in  the  least  sorry;  but, 
as  for  the  general,  I  would  have  him  destroy  that  swag- 
gering Macduff  (who  always  looks  as  if  he  had  just 
slipped  off  a  snuff-shop),  or,  if  not,  cut  him  in  pieces, 
disarm  him,  pink  him  certainly;  and  then  I  would  have 
Mrs.  Macduff  and  all  her  little  ones  come  in  from  the 
slips,  stating  that  the  account  of  their  murder  was  a 
shameful  fabrication  of  the  newspapers,  and  that  they 
were  all  of  them  perfectly  well  and  hearty.  The  entirely 
wicked  you  may  massacre  without  pity;  and  I  have  al- 
ways admired  the  German  Red  Riding-Hood  on  this 
score,  which  is  a  thousand  times  more  agreeable  than  the 
ferocious  English  tale,  because,  when  the  wolf  has  gob- 


JEROME  PATUROT  219 

bled  up  Red  Riding-Hood  and  her  grandmother,  in  come 
two  foresters,  who  cut  open  the  wolf,  and  out  step  the 
old  lady  and  the  j^oung  one  quite  happy. 

So  I  recommend  all  people  to  act  with  regard  to  lugu- 
brious novels,  and  eschew  them.  I  have  never  read  the 
Nelly  part  of  the  "  Old  Curiosity  Shop  "  more  than  once ; 
whereas  I  have  Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness  by 
heart;  and,  in  like  manner,  with  regard  to  "Oliver 
Twist,"  it  did  very  well  to  frighten  one  in  numbers;  but 
I  am  not  going  to  look  on  at  Nancy's  murder,  and  to 
writhe  and  twist  under  the  Jew's  nightmare  again.  No ! 
no!  give  me  Sam  Weller  and  jNIr.  Pickwick  for  a  con- 
tinuance. Which  are  read  most — "The  Pirate"  and 
"  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  or  "  Ivanhoe "  and 
"Quentin  Durward"  ? — The  former  maj^  be  preferred 
by  scowling  Frenchmen,  who  pretend  to  admire  Lord 
Byron.  But,  if  we  get  upon  the  subject  of  Lord  Byron, 
Heaven  knows  how  far  we  may  go.  Let  us  return  to  the 
Frenchmen,  and  ask  pardon  for  the  above  digression. 

The  taste  for  horrors  in  France  is  so  general,  that  one 
can  really  get  scarcely  any  novels  to  read  in  the  country 
(and  so  much  the  better,  no  doubt,  say  you;  the  less  of 
their  immoralities  any  man  reads  the  better)  ;  hence 
(perfectly  disregarding  the  interruption  of  the  reader) , 
when  a  good,  cheerful,  clever,  kind-hearted,  merry, 
smart,  bitter,  sparkling  romance  falls  in  the  way,  it  is  a 
great  mercy;  and  of  such  a  sort  is  the  "  Life  of  Jerome 
Paturot."  It  will  give  any  reader  who  is  familiar  with 
Frenchmen  a  couple  of  long  summer  evenings'  laughter, 
and  any  person  who  does  not  know  the  country  a  curious 
insight  into  some  of  the  social  and  political  humbugs  of 
the  great  nation. 

lake  many  an  idle  honest  fellow,  who  is  good  for  no- 


220  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

thing  else,  honest  Paturot  commences  life  as. a  literary- 
man.  And  here,  but  that  a  man  must  not  abuse  his  own 
trade,  would  be  a  fair  opportunity  for  a  tirade  on  the 
subject  of  literary  characters — those  doomed  poor  fel- 
lows of  this  world  whose  pockets  Fate  has  ordained  shall 
be  perpetually  empty.  Pray,  all  parents  and  guardians, 
that  your  darlings  may  not  be  born  with  literary  tastes ! 
If  so  endowed,  make  up  your  minds  that  they  will  be  idle 
at  school,  and  useless  at  college;  if  they  have  a  profes- 
sion, they  will  be  sure  to  neglect  it;  if  they  have  a  for- 
tune, they  will  be  sure  to  spend  it.  How  much  money 
has  all  the  literature  of  England  in  the  Three  per  Cents? 
That  is  the  question ;  and  any  bank-clerk  could  calculate 
accurately  the  advantage  of  any  other  calling  over  that 
of  the  pen.  Is  there  any  professional  penman  who  has 
laid  by  five  thousand  pounds  of  his  own  earnings?  Law- 
yers, doctors,  and  all  other  learned  persons,  save  money ; 
tradesmen  and  warriors  save  money;  the  Jew-boy  who 
sells  oranges  at  the  coach-door,  the  burnt-umber  JNIalay 
who  sweeps  crossings,  save  money ;  there  is  but  Vates  in 
the  world  who  does  not  seem  to  know  the  art  of  growing 
rich,  and,  as  a  rule,  leaves  the  world  with  as  little  coin 
about  him  as  he  had  when  he  entered  it. 

So,  when  it  is  said  that  honest  Paturot  begins  life  by 
publishing  certain  volumes  of  poems,  the  rest  is  under- 
stood. You  are  sure  he  will  come  to  the  parish  at  the 
end  of  the  third  volume ;  that  he  will  fail  in  all  he  under- 
takes; that  he  will  not  be  more  honest  than  his  neigh- 
bours, but  more  idle  and  weak;  that  he  will  be  a  thrift- 
less, vain,  kind-hearted,  irresolute,  devil-may-care  fel- 
low, whose  place  is  marked  in  this  world ;  whom  bankers 
sneer  at,  and  tradesmen  hold  in  utter  discredit. 

Jerome  spends  his  patrimony,  then,  first,  in  eating. 


JEROME   PATUROT  221 

drinking,  and  making  merry;  secondly,  in  publishing 
four  volumes  of  poems,  four  copies  of  which  were  sold ; 
and  he  wondered  to  this  day  who  bought  them;  and  so, 
having  got  to  the  end  of  his  paternal  inheritance,  he  has 
to  cast  about  for  means  of  making  a  livelihood.  There 
is  his  uncle  Paturot,  the  old  hosier,  who  has  sold  flannel 
and  cotton  nightcaps  with  credit  for  this  half -century 
past.  "  Come  and  be  my  heir,  and  sell  flannels,  Jerome," 
says  this  excellent  uncle  (alas!  it  is  only  in  novels  that 
these  uncles  are  found, — living  literary  characters  have 
no  such  lucky  relationships) .  But  Jerome's  soul  is  above 
nightcaps.  How  can  you  expect  a  man  of  genius  to  be 
anj^thing  but  an  idiot? 

The  events  of  his  remarkable  history  are  supposed  to 
take  place  just  after  the  late  glorious  Revolution.  In 
the  days  of  his  homhance,  Jerome  had  formed  a  connec- 
tion with  one  of  those  interesting  young  females  with 
whom  the  romances  of  Paul  de  Kock  have  probably  made 
some  readers  acquainted, — a  connection  sanctified  by 
everj^thing  except  the  magistrate  and  the  clergyman, — 
a  marriage  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  the  ceremony  only 
being  omitted. 

The  lovely  ^Malvina,  the  typification  of  the  grisette,  as 
warm  an  admirer  of  Paul  de  Kock  as  any  in  the  three 
kingdoms,  comes  to  Jerome's  aid,  after  he  has  spent  his 
money  and  pawned  his  plate,  and  while  (with  the  energy 
peculiar  to  the  character  of  persons  who  publish  poems 
in  four  volumes)  he  sits  with  his  hands  in  his  pocket  be- 
moaning his  fate,  Malvina  has  bethought  herself  of  a 
means  of  livelihood,  and  says,  "  My  Jerome,  let  us  turn 
Saint-Simonians." 

So  Saint-Simonians  they  become.  For  some  time, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  Saint-Simonianism  was  long  a 


222  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

flourishing  trade  in  this  strange  country;  and  the  two 
new  disciples  were  admitted  into  the  community  chacun 
selon  sa  capacite. 

[A  long  extract  from  the  book,  relating  their  experiences 
among  the  Saint-Simonians,  is  omitted.] 

The  funds  of  the  religion,  as  history  has  informed  us, 
soon  began  to  fail ;  and  the  high  priestess,  little  relishing 
the  meagre  diet  on  which  the  society  was  now  forced  to 
subsist,  and  likewise  not  at  all  approving  of  the  extreme 
devotion  which  some  of  the  priests  manifested  for  her, 
quitted  the  Saint-Simonians,  and  established  herself 
once  more  very  contentedly  in  her  garret,  and  resumed 
her  flower-making.  As  for  Paturot,  he  supported  the 
falling  cause  as  long  as  strength  was  left  him,  and  for  a 
while  blacked  the  boots  of  the  fraternity  very  meekly. 
But  he  was  put  upon  a  diet  of  sour  grapes,  which  by  no 
means  strengthened  his  constitution,  and  at  last,  by  the 
solicitations  of  his  Malvina,  was  induced  to  recant,  and 
come  back  again  into  common  life. 

Now  begin  new  plans  of  advancement.  Malvina 
makes  him  the  treasurer  of  the  Imperial  Morocco  Bitu- 
men Company,  which  ends  in  the  disappearance  of  the 
treasury  with  its  manager,  the  despair  and  illness  of  the 
luckless  treasurer.  He  is  thrown  on  the  world  yet  again, 
and  resumes  his  literary  labours.  He  becomes  editor  of 
that  famous  journal  the  As  pick;  which,  in  order  to 
gather  customers  round  it,  proposes  to  subscribers  a 
journal  and  a  pair  of  boots,  a  journal  and  a  great  coat, 
a  journal  and  a  leg  of  mutton,  according  to  the  taste  of 
the  individual.  Then  we  have  him  as  a  dramatic  critic, 
then  a  writer  of  romances,  then  the  editor  of  a  Govern- 


JEROME   PATUROT  223 

ment  paper;  and  all  these  numerous  adventures  of  his 
are  told  with  capital  satire  and  hearty  fun.  The  book  is, 
in  fact,  a  course  of  French  humbug,  commercial,  legal, 
literary,  political ;  and,  if  there  be  any  writer  in  England 
who  has  knowledge  and  wit  sufficient,  he  would  do  well 
to  borrow  the  Frenchman's  idea,  and  give  a  similar  satire 
in  our  own  country. 

The  novel  in  numbers  is  known  with  us,  but  the  daily 
feuilleton  has  not  yet  been  tried  by  our  newspapers,  the 
proprietors  of  some  of  which  would,  perhaps,  do  well  to 
consider  the  matter.  Here  is  Jerome's  theory  on  the 
subject,  offered  for  the  consideration  of  all  falling  jour- 
nals, as  a  means  whereby  they  may  rise  once  more  into 
estimation:  — 

"  You  must  recollect,  sir,  that  the  newspaper,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, the  feuilleton,  is  a  family  affair.  The  father  and  mother 
read  the  story  first,  from  their  hands  it  passes  to  the  children, 
from  the  children  to  the  servants,  from  the  servants  to  the  house 
porter,  and  becomes  at  once  a  part  of  the  family.  They  cannot 
do  without  the  stor}',  sir,  and,  in  consequence,  must  have  the 
journal  which  contains  it.  Suppose,  out  of  economy,  the  father 
stops  the  journal;  mamma  is  sulky,  the  children  angry,  the  whole 
house  is  in  a  rage ;  in  order  to  restore  peace  to  his  family,  the 
father  must  take  in  the  newspaper  again.  It  becomes  as  neces- 
sary as  their  coffee  in  a  morning  or  as  their  soup  for  dinner. 

"  Well,  granting  that  the  feuilleton  is  a  necessity  nowadays, 
what  sort  of  a  feuilleton  must  one  write  in  order  to  please  all 
these  various  people? 

"  My  dear  sir,  nothing  easier.  After  you  have  written  a  num- 
ber or  two,  you  will  see  that  you  can  write  seventy  or  a  hundred 
at  your  will.  For  example,  you  take  a  young  woman,  beautiful, 
persecuted,  and  unhappy.  You  add,  of  course,  a  brutal  tyrant 
of  a  husband  or  father;  you  give  the  lady  a  perfidious  friend, 
and  introduce  a  lover,  the  pink  of  virtue,  valour,  and  manly 


224  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

beauty.  What  is  more  simple  ?  You  mix  up  your  characters  well, 
and  can  serve  them  out  hot  in  a  dozen  or  fourscore  numbers  as 
you  please. 

"  And  it  is  the  manner  of  cutting  your  story  into  portions  to 
which  you  must  look  especially.  One  portion  must  be  bound  to 
the  other,  as  one  of  the  Siamese  twins  to  his  brother,  and  at  the 
end  of  each  number  there  must  be  a  mysterious  word,  or  an  awful 
situation,  and  the  hero  perpetually  before  your  public.  They 
never  tire  of  the  hero,  sir ;  they  get  acquainted  with  him,  and  the 
more  they  do  so  the  more  they  like  him,  and  you  may  keep  up  the 
interest  for  years.  For  instance,  I  will  show  you  a  specimen  of 
the  interesting  in  number-writing,  made  by  a  young  man,  whom  I 
educated  and  formed  myself,  and  whose  success  has  been  pro- 
digious.   It  is  a  story  of  a  mysterious  castle. 

*Jd&  ^  4fe  iti. 

Tfs  *j*  *i»  1* 

"  '  Ethelgida  was  undressed  for  the  night.  Her  attendant  had 
retired,  and  the  maiden  was  left  in  her  vast  chamber  alone.  She 
sat  before  the  dressing-glass,  revolving  the  events  of  the  day,  and 
particularly  thinking  over  the  strange  and  mysterious  words 
which  Alfred  had  uttered  to  her  in  the  shrubbery.  Other  thoughts 
succeeded  and  chased  through  her  agitated  brain.  The  darkness 
of  the  apartment  filled  with  tremor  the  sensitive  and  romantic  soul 
of  the  young  girl.  Dusky  old  tapestries  waved  on  the  wall, 
against  which  a  huge  crucifix  of  ivory  and  ebony  presented  its 
image  of  woe  and  gloom.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if,  in  the  night- 
silence,  groans  passed  through  the  chamber,  and  a  noise,  as  of 
chains  clanking  in  the  distance,  jarred  on  her  frightened  ear. 
The  tapers  flickered,  and  seemed  to  burn  blue.  Ethelgida  re- 
tired to  bed  with  a  shudder,  and,  drawing  the  curtains  round  her, 
sought  to  shut  out  the  ghostly  scene.  But  what  was  the  maiden's 
terror  when,  from  the  wall  at  her  bedside,  she  saw  thrust  forward 
a  naked  hand  and  arm ;  the  hand  was  clasping  by  its  clotted  hair 
a  living,  bloody  head!  What  was  that  hand  !  !  !  ! — what  was 
that  head    !!!!!! 

'(To  he  contimicd  in  our  next).''  " 


JEROME   PATUROT  225 

This  delightful  passage  has  been  translated  for  the 
benefit  of  literary  men  in  England,  who  may  learn  from 
it  a  profitable  lesson.  The  terrible  and  mysterious  style 
has  been  much  neglected  with  us  of  late,  and  if,  in  the 
recess  of  Parliament,  some  of  our  newspapers  are  at  a 
loss  to  fill  their  double  sheets,  or  inclined  to  treat  for  a 
story  in  this  genre,  an  eminent  English  hand,  with  the 
aid  of  Dumas,  or  Frederic  Soulie,  might  be  got  to  tran- 
scribe such  a  story  as  would  put  even  Mr.  O'Connell's 
Irish  romances  out  of  countenance. 

Having  gone  through  all  the  phases  of  literary  quack- 
ery, and  succeeded  in  none,  honest  Jerome,  driven  to 
despair,  has  nothing  for  it,  at  the  end  of  the  first  volume 
of  his  adventures,  but  to  try  the  last  quackery  of  all,  the 
charcoal-pan  and  suicide.  But  in  this  juncture  the  provi- 
dential uncle  (by  means  of  Malvina,  who  is  by  no  means 
disposed  to  quit  this  world,  unsatisfactory  as  it  is),  the 
uncle  of  the  cotton  nightcaps  steps  in,  and  saves  the  un- 
lucky youth,  who,  cured  henceforth  of  his  literary  turn, 
submits  to  take  his  place  behind  the  counter,  performs 
all  the  ceremonies  which  were  necessary  for  making  his 
union  with  Malvina  perfectly  legal,  and  settles  down 
into  the  light  of  common  day. 

May,  one  cannot  help  repeating,  may  all  literary  char- 
acters, at  the  end  of  the  first  volume  of  their  lives,  find 
such  an  uncle !  but,  alas !  this  is  the  only  improbable  part 
of  the  book.  There  is  no  such  blessed  resource  for  the 
penny-a-liner  in  distress.  All  he  has  to  do  is  to  write 
more  lines,  and  get  more  pence,  and  wait  for  grim 
Death,  who  will  carry  him  off  in  the  midst  of  a  penny, 
and  lo!  where  is  he?  You  read  in  the  papers  that  yester- 
day, at  his  lodgings  in  Grub  Street,  "died  Thomas 
Smith,  Esquire,  the  ingenious  and  delightful  author, 


226  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

whose  novels  have  amused  us  all  so  much.  This  eccentric 
and  kind-hearted  ^^Titer  has  left  a  wife  and  ten  children, 
who,  w^e  understand,  are  totally  unprovided  for,  but  we 
are  sure  that  the  country  will  never  allow  them  to  want." 
Smith  is  only  heard  of  once  or  twice  again.  A  publisher 
discovers  a  novel  left  by  that  lamented  and  tal- 
ented author;  on  which  another  publisher  discovers  an- 
other novel  by  the  same  hand:  and  "  Smith's  last  work," 
and  "the  last  w^ork  of  Smith,"  serve  the  bibliopolists' 
turn  for  a  week,  and  then  are  found  entirely 
stupid  by  the  public;  and  so  Smith,  and  his  genius, 
and  his  wants,  and  his  works,  pass  away  out  of  this 
world  for  ever.  The  paragraph  in  the  paj^er  next  to  that 
which  records  Smith's  death  announces  the  excitement 
created  by  the  forthcoming  work  of  the  admirable 
Jones;  and  so  to  the  end  of  time.  But  these  considera- 
tions are  too  profoundly  melancholic,  and  we  had  better 
pass  on  to  the  second  tome  of  Jerome  Paturot's  exis- 
tence. 

One  might  fancy  that,  after  jVIonsieurPaturot  had  set- 
tled down  in  his  nightcap  and  hosiery  shop,  he  would 
have  calmly  enveloped  himself  in  lambswool  stockings 
and  yards  of  flannel,  and,  so  protected,  that  Fortune 
would  have  had  no  more  changes  for  him.  Such,  prob- 
ably, is  the  existence  of  an  English  hosier:  but  in  "the 
empire  of  the  middle  classes  "  matters  are  very  differ- 
ently arranged,  and  the  honnetier  de  France  pent  as- 
jnrer  a  tout.  The  defunct  Paturot  whispered  that  se- 
cret to  Jerome  before  he  departed  this  world,  and  our 
honest  tradesman  begins  presently  to  be  touched  by  am- 
bition, and  to  push  forward  towards  the  attainment  of 
those  dignities  which  the  Revolution  of  July  has  put  in 
his  reach. 


JEROME   PATUROT  227 

The  first  opportunity  for  elevation  is  offered  him  in 
the  ranks  of  that  cheap  defence  of  nations,  the  National 
Guard.  He  is  a  warm  man,  as  the  saying  is ;  he  is  looked 
up  to  in  his  quarter ;  he  is  a  member  of  a  company :  why 
should  he  not  be  its  captain  too?  A  certain  Oscar, 
painter  in  ordinary  to  his  Majesty,  who  paints  spinach- 
coloured  landscapes,  and  has  an  orange-coloured  beard, 
has  become  the  bosom  friend  of  the  race  of  Paturot, 
and  is  the  chief  agent  of  the  gallant  hosier  in  his  at- 
tempts at  acquiring  the  captain's  epaulettes. 

[An  extract  from  the  novel  relates  his  election  to  the 
National  Guard.] 

Thus  happily  elected,  the  mighty  Paturot  determines 
that  the  eyes  of  France  are  on  his  corps  of  voltigeurs, 
and  that  they  shall  be  the  model  of  all  National  Guards- 
men. He  becomes  more  and  more  like  Napoleon.  He 
pinches  the  sentinels  with  whom  "  he  is  content "  by  the 
ear;  he  swears  every  now  and  then  with  much  energy; 
he  invents  a  costume  (it  was  in  the  early  days  when  the 
fancy  of  the  National  Guardsman  was  allowed  to  luxu- 
riate over  his  facings  and  pantaloons  at  will)  ;  and  in  a 
grand  review  before  Marshal  Soban  the  Paturot  com- 
pany turns  out  in  its  splendid  new  uniform,  yellow  fac- 
ings, yellow-striped  trousers,  brass  buckles  and  gorgets 
— the  most  brilliant  company  ever  seen.  But,  though 
these  clothes  were  strictly  military  and  unanimously 
splendid,  the  wearers  had  not  been  bred  up  in  those 
soldatesque  habits  which  render  much  inferior  men  more 
effective  on  parade.  They  failed  in  some  manoeuvre 
which  the  old  soldier  of  the  Empire  ordered  them  to  per- 
form—the front  and  rear  ranks  were  mingled  in  hope- 


228  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

less  confusion.  "Ho,  porter!"  shouted  the  old  general 
to  the  guard  of  the  Carrousel  gate;  "shut  the  gates, 
porter!  these  canaries  will  fly  off  if  you  don't." 

Undismayed  by  this  little  check,  and  determined,  like 
all  noble  spirits,  to  repair  it.  Captain  Paturot  now  la- 
boured incessantly  to  bring  his  company  into  discipline, 
and  brought  them  not  only  to  march  and  to  counter- 
march, but  to  fire  with  great  precision,  until,  on  an  un- 
lucky day,  the  lieutenant,  being  in  advance  of  his  men, 
a  certain  voltigeur,  who  had  forgotten  to  withdraw  his 
ramrod  from  his  gun,  discharged  the  rod  into  the  fleshj^ 
part  of  the  lieutenant's  back,  which  accident  caused  the 
firing  to  abate  somewhat  afterwards. 

Ambition,  meanwhile,  had  seized  upon  the  captain's 
wife,  who  too  was  determined  to  play  her  part  in  the 
world,  and  had  chosen  the  world  of  fashion  for  her 
sphere  of  action.  A  certain  Russian  princess,  of  un- 
doubted grandeur,  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Madame 
Paturot,  and,  under  the  auspices  of  that  illustrious  hy- 
perborean chaperon,  she  entered  into  the  genteel  world. 

Among  the  fashionable  public  of  Paris,  we  are  led  by 
Monsieur  Paturot's  memoirs  to  suppose  that  they  mingle 
virtue  with  their  pleasure,  and,  so  that  they  can  aid  in  a 
charitable  work,  are  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves  and 
dance  to  any  extent.  It  happened  that  a  part  of  the 
Borysthenes  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Princess  Fli- 
bustikopfkoi's  estate  overflowed,  and  the  Parisian  pub- 
lic came  forward  as  sympathisers,  as  they  did  for  suffer- 
ing Ireland  and  Prince  O'Connell  the  other  day.  A 
great  fete  was  resolved  on,  and  Madame  de  Paturot  be- 
came one  of  the  ladies  patronesses. 

And  at  this  fete  we  are  presented  to  a  great  character, 
in  whom  the  habitue  of  Paris  will  perhaps  recognise  a 


JEROME   PATUROT  229 

certain  likeness  to  a  certain  celebrity  of  the  present  day, 
by  name  JNIonsieur  Hector  Berlioz,  the  musician  and 
critic. 

"  The  great  artist  promised  his  assistance.  All  the  wind  in- 
struments in  Paris  were  engaged  in  advance,  and  all  the  brass 
bands,  and  all  the  fiddles  possible. 

"  '  Princess,'  said  the  artist,  agitating  his  locks,  '  for  your 
sake  I  would  find  the  hymn  of  the  creation  that  has  been  lost 
since  the  days  of  the  deluge.' 

"  The  day  of  the  festival  arrived.  The  artist  would  allow 
none  but  himself  to  conduct  his  own  chef-d'oeuvre;  he  took  his 
place  at  a  desk  five  metres  above  the  level  of  the  waves  of  the  or- 
chestra, and  around  him  were  placed  the  most  hairy  and  romantic 
musicians  of  the  day,  who  were  judged  worthy  of  applauding  at 
the  proper  place.  The  artist  himself,  the  utterer  of  the  musical 
apocalypse,  cast  his  eyes  over  the  assembly,  seeking  to  dominate 
the  multitude  by  that  glance,  and  also  to  keep  in  order  a  refrac- 
tory lock  of  hair  which  would  insist  upon  interrupting  it.  I  had 
more  than  once  heard  of  the  plan  of  this  great  genius,  which  con- 
sists in  setting  public  and  private  life  to  music.  A  thousand  ex- 
traordinary anecdotes  are  recorded  of  the  extraordinary  power 
which  he  possessed  for  so  doing;  among  others  is  the  story  of 
the  circumstance  which  occurred  to  him  in  a  tavern.  Having  a 
Avish  for  a  dish  of  fricandeau  and  sorrel,  the  genius  took  a  flage- 
olet out  of  his  pocket,  and  modulated  a  few  notes. 

'  Tum-tiddle-di-tum-tiddle-de,'  &c. 

The  waiter  knew  at  once  what  was  meant,  and  brought  the  frican- 
deau and  the  sauce  required.  Genius  always  overcomes  its  de- 
tractors in  this  way. 

"  I  am  not  able  to  give  a  description  of  the  wonderful  morceau 
of  music  now  performed.  With  it  the  festival  terminated.  The 
hero  of  the  evening  sat  alone  at  his  desk,  vanquished  by  his  emo- 
tions, and  half-drowned  in  a  lock  of  hair,  which  has  previously 
been  described.    The  music  done,  the  hairy  musicians  round  about 


230  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

rushed  towards  the  maestro  with  the  idea  of  carrying  him  in  tri- 
umph to  his  coach,  and  of  dragging  him  home  in  the  same.  But 
he,  modestly  retiring  by  a  back-door,  called  for  his  cloak  and  his 
clogs,  and  walked  home,  where  he  wrote  a  critique  for  the  news- 
papers of  the  music  which  he  had  composed  and  directed  pre- 
viously. It  is  thus  that  modern  genius  is  made ;  it  is  sufficient  for 
all  duties,  and  can  swallow  any  glory  you  please." 

Whether  this  Httle  picture  is  a  hkeness  or  not,  who 
shall  say  ?  but  it  is  a  good  caricature  of  a  race  in  France, 
where  geniuses  poussent  as  they  do  nowhere  else;  where 
poets  are  prophets,  where  romances  have  revelations. 
It  was  but  yesterday  I  was  reading  in  a  Paris  newspaper 
some  account  of  the  present  state  of  things  in  Spain. 
"  Battles  in  Spain  are  mighty  well,"  says  the  genius ;  "  but 
what  does  Europe  care  for  them?  A  si7igle  word  spoken 
in  France  has  more  influence  than  a  pitched  battle  in 
Spain."    So  stupendous  a  genius  is  that  of  the  country. 

The  nation  considers,  then,  its  beer  the  strongest  that 
ever  was  brewed  in  the  world;  and  so  with  individuals. 
This  has  his  artistical,  that  his  musical,  that  his  poetical 
beer,  which  frothy  liquor  is  preferred  before  that  of  all 
other  taps;  and  the  musician  above  has  a  number  of 
brethren  in  other  callings. 

Jerome's  high  fortunes  are  yet  to  come.  From  being 
captain  of  his  company  he  is  raised  to  be  lieutenant- 
colonel  of  his  regiment,  and  as  such  has  the  honour  to  be 
invited  to  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries  with  Madame  Pa- 
turot.  This  great  event  is  described  in  the  following 
eloquent  manner : — 

-  [Here  follows  a  description  of  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries.] 

If  the  respected  reader,  like  the  writer  of  this,  has 
never  had  the  honour  of  figuring  at  a  ball  at  the  Tuil- 


JEROME   PATUROT  231 

eries  (at  home,  of  course,  we  are  as  regular  at  Pimlieo 
as  Lord  Melbourne  used  to  be) ,  here  is  surely  in  a  couple 
of  pages  a  description  of  the  affair  so  accurate,  that, 
after  translating  it,  I  for  my  part  feel  as  if  I  were  quite 
familiar  with  the  palace  of  the  French  king.  I  can  see 
Louis  Philippe  grinning  endlessly,  ceaselessly  bobbing 
his  august  head  up  and  down.  I  can  see  the  footmen  in 
red,  the  officers  d' ordonnance  in  stays,  the  spindle- 
shanked  young  princes  frisking  round  to  the  sound  of 
the  brass  bands.  The  chandeliers,  the  ambassadors,  the 
flaccid  Germans  with  their  finger-rings,  the  Spaniards 
looking  like  gilded  old  clothesmen;  here  and  there  a 
deputy  lieutenant,  of  course,  and  one  or  two  hapless 
Britons  in  their  national  court  suits,  that  make  the 
French  mob,  as  the  Briton  descends  from  his  carriage, 
exclaim,  "  Oh,  ce  marquis! "  Fancy  besides  fifteen  hun- 
dred women,  of  whom  fourteen  hundred  and  fifty  are 
ugly — it  is  the  proportion  in  France.  And  how  much 
easier  is  it  to  enjoy  this  Barmecide  dance  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  honest  Paturot  than  to  dress  at  midnight,  and 
pay  a  guinea  for  a  carriage,  and  keep  out  of  one's  whole- 
some bed,  in  order  to  look  at  King  Louis  Philippe  smil- 
ing !  What  a  mercy  it  is  not  to  be  a  gentleman !  What 
a  blessing  it  is  not  to  be  obliged  to  drive  a  cab  in  white 
kid  gloves,  nor  to  sit  behind  a  great  flaundering  racing- 
tailed  horse  in  Rotten  Row,  expecting  momentaril}^  that 
he  will  jump  you  into  the  barouche  full  of  ladies  just 
ahead!  What  a  mercy  it  is  not  to  be  obliged  to  wear 
tight  lacquered  boots,  nor  to  dress  for  dinner,  nor  to 
go  to  balls  at  midnight,  nor  even  to  be  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  nor  to  be  prevented  from  smoking 
a  cigar  if  you  are  so  minded!  All  which  privileges  of 
poverty  may  Fortune  long  keep  to  us!     Men  do  not 


232  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

know  half  their  luck,  that  is  the  fact.  If  the  real  truth 
were  known  about  things,  we  should  have  their  Graces  of 
Sutherland  and  Devonshire  giving  up  their  incomes  to 
the  national  debt,  and  saying  to  the  country,  "  Give  me 
a  mutton  chop  and  a  thousand  a  year! " 

In  the  fortunes  of  honest  Paturot  this  wholesome 
moral  is  indicated  with  much  philosophic  acumen,  as 
those  will  allow  who  are  inclined  from  the  above  speci- 
men of  their  quality  to  make  themselves  acquainted  with 
the  further  history  of  his  fortunes.  Such  persons  may 
read  how  Jerome,  having  become  a  colonel  of  the  Na- 
tional Guards,  becomes,  of  course,  a  member  of  the  Le- 
gion of  Honour,  how  he  is  tempted  to  aspire  to  still  fur- 
ther dignities,  how  he  becomes  a  deputy,  and  how  his 
constituents  are  served  by  him;  how,  being  deputy,  he 
has  perhaps  an  inclination  to  become  minister,  but  that 
one  fine  day  he  finds  that  his  house  cannot  meet  certain 
bills  which  are  presented  for  payment,  and  so  the  poor 
fellow  becomes  a  bankrupt. 

He  gets  a  little  place,  he  retires  with  Malvina  into  a 
country  town;  she  is  exceedingly  fond  of  canaries  and 
dominoes,  and  Jerome  cultivates  cabbages  and  pinks 
with  great  energy  and  perfect  contentment.  He  says 
he  is  quite  happy.  Ought  he  not  to  be  so  who  has  made 
a  thousand  readers  happy  and  perhaps  a  little  wiser? 

I  have  just  heard  that  "  Jerome  Paturot "  is  a  politi- 
cal novel:  one  of  the  Reviews  despatches  this  master- 
piece in  a  few  growling  lines,  and  pronounces  it  to  be  a 
failure.  Perhaps  it  is  a  political  novel,  perhaps  there  is 
a  great  deal  of  sound  thinking  in  this  careless,  familiar, 
sparkling  narrative,  and  a  vast  deal  of  reflection  hidden 
under  Jerome's  ordinary  cotton  nightcap ;  certainly  it  is 
a  most  witty  and  entertaining  story,  and  as  such  is 


JEROME   PATUROT  233 

humbly  recommended  by  the  undersigned  to  all  lovers 
of  the  Pantagruelian  philosophy.  It  is  a  great  thing 
nowadays  to  get  a  funny  book  which  makes  you  laugh, 
to  read  three  volumes  of  satire  in  which  there  is  not  a 
particle  of  bad  blood,  and  to  add  to  one's  knowledge  of 
the  world,  too,  as  one  can't  help  doing  by  the  aid  of  this 
keen  and  good-humoured  wit.  The  author  of  "  Jerome 
Paturot"  is  ^lonsieur  Reybaud,  understood  to  be  a 
grave  man,  dealing  in  political  economy,  in  Fourierism, 
and  other  severe  sciences.  There  is  a  valuable  work  by 
the  late  JMr.  Henry  Fielding,  the  police-magistrate, 
upon  the  prevention  of  thieving  in  the  metropolis,  and 
some  political  pamphlets  of  merit  by  the  same  author; 
but  it  hath  been  generally  allowed  that  the  history  of 
Mr.  Thomas  Jones  by  the  same  Mr.  Fielding  is 
amongst  the  most  valuable  of  the  scientific  works  of  this 
author.  And  in  like  manner,  whatever  may  be  the 
graver  works  of  JNIonsieur  Reybaud,  I  heartily  trust  that 
he  has  some  more  of  the  Paturot  kind  in  his  brain  or  his 
portfolio,  for  the  benefit  of  the  lazy,  novel-reading,  un- 
scientific world. 

M.  A.  TiTMAESH. 
{Fraser's  Magazine,  September  1843.) 


GRANT  IN  PARIS* 

BY  FITZ-BOODLE 

Travellers'  Club:  Nov.  24,  1843. 

IT  is  needless  to  state  to  any  gent  in  the  upper  circles 
of  society,  that  the  eyes  of  Europe  have  long  been 
directed  towards  Grant.  All  the  diplomatic  gents  at  this 
haunt  of  the  aristocracy  have  been  on  the  look-out  for  his 
book.  The  question  which  Don  Manuel  Godoy  addresses 
to  Field-Marshal  Blucher  (before  they  sit  down  to  whist) 
is,  in  the  Spanish  language  of  course,  When  will  it  ap- 
pear? "  Prxckpf sky  Grantowitz  bubbxwky,"  exclaims 
his  Excellency  Count  Pozzo  di  Borgo,  before  taking  his 
daily  glass  of  caviare  and  water,  "  that  terrible  fellow 
Grant  is  going  to  publish  a  work  about  Paris,  I  see." 
"  Quand  sera-t-il  dehors?"  screams  Prince  Talleyrand, 
"  when  will  it  be  out? "  and  on  the  day  of  publication  I 
know  for  a  fact  that  a  courier  was  in  waiting  at  the 
French  embassy  to  carry  off  the  volumes  to  his  M-t-y 
L-is  Ph-l-ppe  and  Monsieur  Gu-z-t.  They  have  'em 
by  this  time — they  have  read  every  word  of  these  remark- 
able tomes,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  they  are  trembling 
in  their  souliers  at  some  of  the  discoveries  therein  made. 
Grant  has  always  been  notorious  for  possessing  a  mas- 
culine and  vigorous  understanding,  a  fine  appreciation 
of  the  delicacies  of  good  society,  and  a  brilliant — almost 

^  Paris  and  its  People.  By  the  Author  of  "  Random  Recollections  of  the 
Lords  and  Commons,"  "The  Great  Metropolis,"  &c.  &c.  2  vols.  London: 
Stiunders  &  Otley. 

234 


GRANT  IN  PARIS  235 

too  brilliant  wit.  The  only  things  wanting  to  perfect 
him  as  a  writer  were,  perhaps,  English  grammar  and  for- 
eign travel.  This  latter  difficulty  he  has  now  brilliantly 
overcome.  He  has  travelled.  Dangers  and  expense 
have  not  delayed  him.  He  has  visited  foreign  courts  and 
acquired  the  high-bred  elegance  and  badinage  which  the 
young  English  gent  can  only  attain  by  Continental  ex- 
cursions; and  though  in  the  matter  of  grammar,  before 
alluded  to,  he  is  not  perfectly  blameless,  yet  who  is?  "  Nil 
desperandum,"  as  Moliere  observes,  grammar  may  be 
learned  even  better  at  home,  in  the  solitude  of  the  closet, 
than  abroad  amidst  the  dazzling  enticements  of  the 
French  (who,  besides,  don't  speak  the  English  gram- 
mar) ,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that,  after  he  has  published  a 
few  more  works,  Grant  will  be  pronounced  faultless. 

It  was  a  kind  thought  which  induced  Grant  to  have 
his  portrait  engraved,  and  to  prefix  it  to  this  his  last  and 
most  original  work.  This  practice  has  of  late  been  very 
common  amongst  our  great  men,  who  know  that  the 
affectionate  public  longs  to  be  in  possession  of  the  form 
and  features  as  well  as  of  the  thoughts  of  the  poets  and 
sages  who  delight  and  instruct  it.  We  enter  into  so- 
ciety with  them,  as  it  were:  we  have  personal  converse 
with  them.  Who,  for  instance,  when  he  sees  that  fasci- 
nating portrait  of  Moore  in  Longman's  late  edition, 
does  not  feel  doubly  interested  in  the  bard?  Who  that 
has  seen  Chalon's  picture  of  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  turned 
up  in  the  uneasy  chair,  or  that  in  which  the  honourable 
baronet  is  represented  with  his  arms  folded,  or  that  in 
which  we  have  him  without  any  arms,  nay,  almost  with- 
out any  clothes— I  mean  in  the  engraving  after  the  bust 
—who,  I  say,  does  not  feel  more  intimate  with  the  ac- 
complished author?     And  if  with  these,  why  not  with 


236  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Grant?  I  venture  to  say  that  though,  perhaps,  he  does 
not  know  it  himself,  as  a  writer  of  fiction  he  surpasses 
any  one  of  them ;  and  that  he  can  say  of  his  works  what 
they  cannot  say  of  theirs,  that  in  every  single  page  there 
is  something  amusing. 

We  accordingly  have  him  on  steel,  and  from  the  like- 
ness here  given  I  should  take  Grant  to  be  a  man  of  forty 
or  two  and  forty.  He  is  represented  as  sitting  on  a 
very  handsome  chair,  probably  of  mahogany,  and  with 
a  leather  back,  though  what  the  colour  of  the  leather  is, 
it  is  impossible,  as  the  engraving  is  not  coloured,  to  say. 
He  is  dressed  in  a  suit  of  black,  probably  his  best  suit 
of  clothes.  The  elbow  of  his  left  hand  reposes  upon  a 
work  entitled  "Random  Recollections;"  while  the  fin- 
gers are  occupied  in  twiddling  his  shirt-collar,  probably 
a  clean  one  ( or  if  not  a  shirt-collar  at  least  a  false  collar, 
or  by  possibility  a  dicky) ,  put  on  that  very  day.  In  his 
right  hand  he  holds  a  pen,  with  which  very  likely  he 
wrote  those  very  "  Random  Recollections  "  under  his  left 
elbow.  A  chain  hangs  out  of  the  pocket  of  his  velvet 
waistcoat,  by  which  we  may  conclude  that  he  has  a  watch, 
though  we  have  known  many  gents  whose  watches  were 
at  their  uncle's  (as  the  fashionable  term  for  the  pawn- 
broker goes), — I  have  known,  I  say,  many  gents  who 
had  no  watch  wear  a  bullet  or  a  copper-piece  in  their 
fob,  and  when  asked,  "What  o'clock  is  it?"  say  "Oh, 
my  dear  William!"  or  "my  dear  John"  (varying  the 
name,  of  course,  as  the  case  may  be) ,  "I  forgot  to  wind 
my  watch  up  last  evening,  or  this  morning,"  and  so  they 
did  forget  to  wind  it  uji.     But  a  truce  to  pleasantry. 

Grant's  hair  seems  to  be  rather  thin  on  the  forehead, 
and  I  should  say,  if  closely  pressed,  that  he  was — 
baldish.  Over  his  ears  it  grows,  however,  pretty  luxuri- 
antly, and  if  not  put  into  papers  over-night,  or  touched 


GRANT   IN  PARIS  237 

up  with  the  tongs,  as  many  gents'  hair  is,  especially  when 
they  are  going  to  have  their  portraits  taken,  has  a  nat- 
ural curl.  Whether  his  nose  grows  as  it  is  represented 
in  the  picture,  and  his  eyes  have  that  peculiar  look,  I 
cannot,  of  course,  say,  so  much  depending  upon  the 
artist  in  these  cases,  for  it  is  manifest  that  if  we  have 
never  seen  a  gent,  we  cannot  say  whether  that  gent's 
picture  is  like  or  no.  The  above  description  will  suffice 
to  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  Grant. 

Under  the  print  is  written  "  Yours  very  truly,  James 
Grant."  And  in  looking  at  that  piece  of  writing,  as  at 
many  other  similar  autographs  at  the  bottom  of  por- 
traits, I  have  not  been  able  to  refrain  from  asking  my- 
self. Whose  very  truly?  Does  a  gent  sit  down  and 
write  "yours  very  truly"  to  himself,  which  is  absurd? 
Or  does  he  send  off  a  letter  to  a  friend  begging  him  to 
send  back  a  former  letter,  in  some  terms  like  the  follow- 
ing?— 

"  My  dear  Friend  (or  Sir  or  Madam,  as  the  case  may  be),  tlie 
public  is  very  anxious  to  have  my  picture  and  autograph;  as  I 
cannot  write  '  yours  very  truly  '  to  myself,  will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  send  me  any  one  of  my  former  letters,  and  oblige 
yours  very  truly, 

"  James,  or  Edward  Lytton  So-and-So." 

However  this  may  have  been  managed,  there  the  au- 
tograph is — the  handwriting  is  very  like  the  Duke  of 
Wellington's,  by  the  way — there  is  the  writing,  and 
there  is  the  writer,  and  very  truly  he  has  been  ours,  and 
in  no  instance  more  truly  than  now.  James  Grant,  I 
say  to  mj^self,  when  looking  at  that  writing,  I  am  very 
glad  to  take  you  by  the  hand}     And  so  to  business. 

^  Our  opinion  is  that  Master  Fitz  is  attempting  an 
imitation  of  the  style  of  Grant. 


288  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

"  In  appearing  once  more  before  the  public,"  begins 
James  in  his  preface,  "it  is  unnecessary  for  the  author 
to  say  that  he  has  gone  over  entirely  new  ground — 
ground  which,  for  the  most  part,  has  been  untrodden 
by  any  previous  English  writer."  And  I  quote  the  sen- 
tence for  the  purpose  of  vindicating  at  the  outset  a  re- 
mark which  some  people  may  have  thought  unnecessa- 
rily harsh,  viz.  that  Grant  sometimes  neglects  his 
grammar.  I  don't  mean  merely  his  grammar  of 
language,  but  his  moral  grammar,  so  to  speak,  his 
grammar  of  the  mind.  Thus  when  our  dear  friend 
says,  "It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  I  have  gone 
over  entirely  new  ground,"  I  ask  first,  if  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  say  so,  dear  friend,  why  do  you  say  so?  Second, 
I  inquire,  how  can  that  ground,  of  which  some  part  has 
been  trodden,  according  to  Grant's  own  admission, — 
how  can  that  very  ground  be  entirely  new?  Such  con- 
tradictions, coming  in  the  very  same  sentence,  do  not, 
permit  me  to  state,  look  well.  There  should  be  a  few 
pages  between  them;  they  should  not  jostle  each  other, 
and  eat  each  other  up,  as  it  were,  in  the  narrow  space  of 
a  couple  of  lines;  but  one  or  other  assertion  should  be 
allowed  to  stand  over  to  another  chapter,  and  thus  it 
would  wear  the  air,  not  of  a  contradiction,  but  of  a  fresh 
and  brilliant  thought.  Many  of  our  well-known  writers 
use  this  method  with  the  greatest  success.  Thirdly,  I 
would  take  the  liberty  to  ask.  Is  Paris  entirely  new 
ground?  It  can't  be,  for  James  himself  says,  at  the  end 
of  the  second  volume,  that  when  he  went  thither  he  ex- 
pected to  find  15,000  English  there.  However,  I  need 
not  have  occupied  so  much  of  your  valuable  time  and 
the  club  paper  in  discussing  the  above  sentence,  for  on 
turning  to  sentence  2,  what  do  I  perceive?     Why  this: 


GRANT  IN  PARIS  239 

that  as  the  last  part  of  sentence  1  contradicts  the 
first  part,  so  sentence  2  contradicts  the  second  part  of 
sentence  1,  by  admitting  that  a  great  deal  has  been 
already  written  about  Paris,— which,  indeed,  I  believe 
to  be  the  fact. 

In  six  masterly  pages  James  narrates  the  early  his- 
tory of  Paris;  and  though  it  must  be  owned  that  these 
pages  are  robbed,  for  the  chief  part,  from  an  exceed- 
ingly rare  and  curious  book,  called  "  Galignani's  Paris 
Guide,"  yet  it  must  not  be  imagined  that  James  has  not 
placed  his  own  peculiar  mark  upon  the  article  which  he 
has  appropriated. 

For  instance,  Galignani  begins  his  account  thus: 
"  The  origin  of  Paris,  and  the  character  of  its  inhabi- 
tants, are  necessarily  involved  in  deep  obscurity." 
Whereas  James  writes  as  follows:  "The  origin  and 
early  history  of  Paris,  unlike  the  early  history  of  the  me- 
tropolis of  England,  are  so  completely  enveloped  in  ob- 
scurity, that  we  rarely  ineet  with  any  writer  of  note  who 
even  hazards  a  conjecture  on  the  subject."  How  fine 
this  is!  Some  people  may  presume  that  James  has  com- 
mitted a  theft,  but  surely  it  is  an  excusable  theft.  If  I 
steal  the  child  of  a  beggar,  and  make  him  a  duke,  with 
a  hundred  thousand  a  year,  will  not  that  child— will  not 
the  public  (provided  his  Grace  has  no  collateral  heirs) 
pardon  me  ?  So  with  James.  He  takes  a  handkerchief, 
let  us  say,  he  appropriates,  or— to  speak  professionally 
—prigs  that  handkerchief;  but  the  instant  it  is  in  his 
possession,  he  puts  a  border  of  gold  lace  round  it,  so  that 
the  handkerchief  will  hardly  know  itself.  And  how 
happily  chosen  are  all  the  ornaments  which  he  adds  to 
the  appropriated  article!  Unlike  the  history  of  Lon- 
don, the  origin  of  Paris  is,  and  no  writer  even  hazards 


240  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

a  conjecture  on  the  subject;  by  which  words  we  see  that 
James  is  perfectly  aware  of  the  origin  of  London  (and 
in  that  knowledge,  I  fearlessly  say,  excels  any  man  in 
England),  and,  likewise,  that  he  has  consulted  every 
author  of  note  who  has  written  about  Paris,  for  how 
else  could  he  say  that  they  never  hazarded  conjectures 
concerning  its  origin? 

"  The  first  mention,"  says  he,  "  of  the  French  capitaV 
(the  turn  is  again  delightfully  happy)  "occurs  in 
Csesar's  '  Commentaries,'  written  about  fifty  years  be- 
fore the  Christian  era.  That  distinguished  writer  refers 
to  it  under  the  name  of  Lutetia.  .  ,  .  .  The  refer- 
ences which  Caesar  makes  to  the  Paris  of  his  day  are 
exceedingly  slight  and  unsatisfactory.  All  that  can  be 
gleaned  from  them  is,  that  it  was  an  inconsiderable  town 
built  on  La  Cite,  one  of  the  then  five  islands  in  the  Seine. 
This  island  was  at  that  period  much  smaller  than  it  now 
is."  Indeed!  if  an  island  cannot  grow  in  1890  years, 
the  deuce  is  in  it!  And  so  he  continues,  now  narrating 
what  "the  Emperor  Julian  informs  us,"  now  stating 
that  it  was  sacked  under  the  "  auspices  of  Clovis,"  again 
touching  upon  "  Hugh  Capet,  the  founder  of  the  Bour- 
bon dynasty,"  always  happy  in  his  phrases,  and  pro- 
found, if  not  in  research  (for,  indeed,  I  believe  the 
guide-book  contains  most  of  the  truths  which  Grant  has 
arranged  for  publication ) ,  yet  in  that  profound  spirit  of 
observation  and  manly  justice  of  reasoning,  which  is  so 
much  better  than  mere  musty  book-learning,  and  which 
the  mere  scholar  can  sometimes  never  acquire.  For  in- 
stance, take  the  following  passage :  — 

"  Great  diversity  of  opinion  exists  among  the  early  historians 
of  England  as  to  the  period  at  which  Christianity  was  first  intro- 


GRANT  IN  PARIS  241 

duced  into  our  country.  There  seems  to  be  no  such  diversity 
among  the  accredited  historians  of  France  respecting  the  time 
■when  the  Christian  faith  was  first  promulgated  in  that  part  of 
Europe.  They  all  concur  in  the  statement  that  Saint  Denis  in- 
troduced Christianity  among  the  Parisians  about  the  year  250. 
Whether  the  majority  of  them  renounced  Paganism,  and  em- 
braced the  rehgion  of  Jesus,  on  the  introduction  of  the  latter,  is 
a  point  on  which  the  French  historians  are  silent ;  but  the  pre- 
sumption is,  that  at  least  a  goodly  number  must  have  adopted  the 
new  faith,  as  a  bishoprick  was  established  in  Paris  a  few  years 
after  Saint  Denis  promulgated  the  truths  of  Christianity  among 
its  people." 

How  fine  it  is  to  see  Grant  sitting,  as  it  were,  in  the 
judgment-seat,  and  calling  up  to  the  tribunal  of  his 
thought  the  mighty  witnesses  of  the  past.  Nothing  es- 
capes him.  The  doubts  and  struggles  of  the  new  faith, 
the  surly  yet  unavailing  resistance  of  the  old,  are 
painted  by  him  in  a  few  masterly  touches.  Whether 
the  majority  embraced  the  new  creed  is  what  he  at  once 
asks.  And  how  does  he  answer  that  momentous  ques- 
tion ?  Why,  by  a  manl}'^  and  straightforward  statement 
that  he  doesn't  know.  "  The  French  historians  are 
silent.  But  there  must  have  been  a  goodly  number," 
sa5^s  the  keen  and  noble  James.  And  why?  Because  a 
bishopric  was  established.  It  is  (if  he  will  pardon  me 
the  expression)  his  eureka.  It  is  stout  Cortes  discov- 
ing  the  Pacific.  The  mists  of  time  are  rolled  away  be- 
fore the  keen  eyes  of  James.  He  sees  the  bard  and 
Druid  retreating  into  his  woods  to  emerge  from  them 
no  more.  He  sees  the  pale-faced  missionary  of  the  new 
faith  pleading  its  cause  before  the  savage  and  wonder- 
ing Gaul.  Down  go  Thor  and  Woden;  down  go  the 
fairer  idols  of  Roman  worship;  cross-topped  church- 


242  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

spires  rise  over  the  pines:  clinking  chapel-bells  are 
heard  in  the  valleys;  and  lo!  preceded  by  banner  and 
crozier,  by  beadle  and  verger,  comes  Bishop  Denis,  in 
his  wig  and  lawn-sleeves.  It  is  a  fact,  I  believe,  not 
generally  known,  that  Bishop  Denis  walked  for  several 
miles  with  his  head  cut  off ;  which  circumstance,  suppos- 
ing his  lordship  was  twenty  years  occupier  of  the  see  of 
Paris,  must,  therefore,  have  taken  place  about  the  year 
270 — no  less  than  fifteen  hundred  and  seventy-four 
years  ago. 

Let  us  quit,  however,  the  regions  of  antiquity,  and 
plunge  at  once  into  the  Paris  of  to-day. 

And  now  our  antiquarian  having  first  put  us  in  pos- 
session of  the  ancient  historj^  of  the  place,  he  passes  the 
barrier,  and  rushes  in  medias  res  I  may  say,  if  the  Latin 
word  res,  rei,  "  a  thing,"  may,  in  the  present  instance, 
be  allowed  by  a  little  poetic  license  to  mean  "  a  street " 
(as,  in  fact,  a  street  is  a  thing,  therefore  res  is  Latin  for 
a  street ) .  He  rushes,  I  say,  in  medias  res,  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  streets,  Avhere  the  gutter  is,  and  begins  to  look 
about  him.  And  his  very  first  remark  on  entering  the 
city  shows  how  fine  is  his  insight  into  human  nature,  and 
how,  though  he  has  travelled  but  little  hitherto,  he  has 
profited  by  the  little  he  has  seen. 

"  The  first  impression  of  Paris,"  says  James,  "  which 
a  stranger  receives  depends  on  the  part  of  the  town  at 
which  he  makes  his  entrance."  Such  facts  may  possibly 
strike  other  travellers,  but  do  other  travellers  discover 
them?  No;  and  the  best  characteristic  of  truth  I  say 
is,  when  everybody  says  "  How  true! "  Having  been  at 
Paris  myself,  I  can  state  for  a  fact,  that  nothing  is  more 
true  than  the  above  observation ;  and  that  not  only  there, 
but  in  other  cities  which  I  have  visited,  your  impressions 


GRANT  IN  PARIS  243 

depend  upon  what  you  see.  He  must  be  a  miserably 
prejudiced  creature  who  judges  otherwise,  and  one  who 
is  not  worthy  of  credit. 

Now,  as  the  entrance  from  the  Saint  Denis  road  is  not 
picturesque,  what  does  our  author  do  but  benevolently 
carry  us  round  to  the  Arc  de  I'Etoile,  and  introduce  us 
to  the  city  that  way. 

"  Englishmen  are  accustomed,"  says  he,  "  to  admire  the  grand 
entrance  into  Hyde  Park ;  but  it  is  nothing  "  (no  more  it  is)  "  to 
the  majestic  barrier.  As  the  stranger  passes  it,  a  singularly 
beautiful  prospect  presents  itself  to  his  view.  He  sees  a  consider- 
able portion  of  Paris  in  the  distance,  with  all  the  magnificence  of 
the  Tuileries  in  the  foreground ;  while  on  either  side,  extending 
for  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half,  are  many  rows  of  trees  of 
stately  size  and  ample  foliage,  all  planted  with  perfect  regularity, 
and  producing  an  effect  in  the  mind  of  the  spectator  far  too 
pleasing  to  admit  of  description.'' 

The  only  difficulty  to  this  charming  description  is  with 
regard  to  the  foreground  of  the  Tuileries,  which  is  a 
mile  and  a  half  off;  for,  "  as  you  proceed  farther  on  this 
beautiful  road,  you  near  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 
which  never  yet  has  been  beheld  by  an  intelligent  person 
without  confounding  him  with  their  surpassing  beauty! " 
And  Grant  is  an  intelligent  person,  and  confounded, 
therefore,  must  he  have  been  at  the  sight,  of  which  he 
finely  says  again,  "  it  were  impossible  for  the  most 
graphic  description  to  convey  an  idea."  "  In  the  months 
of  August  and  September,"  he  adds,  "  I  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  Tuileries,  and  felt  myself  literally  bewil- 
dered with  the  glories  around  me;"  and  so,  I  need 
not  say,  would  any  man  who  were  to  stand  there  for 
that  time.     "  Nature  and  man,"  continues  James,  "  co- 


244  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

operate  together  in  this  charming  locaHty;  and  it  is  no 
wonder  that  the  Parisians  should  be  so  anxious  that  all 
illustrious  visitors  should  enter  their  city  by  the  Champs 
Elysees." 

In  the  city,  "  what  most  forciblj^  strikes  the  stranger 
is,"  Grant  says  at  once,  "  the  height  of  the  houses  and  the 
narrowness  of  the  streets."  This  would  strike  anybody 
perhaps;  but  few  know  that  the  houses  are  painted  in 
different  fancy  colours ;  that  each  individual  has  a  right 
to  paint  the  part  of  the  house  which  he  rents  as  he 
pleases;  and  hence  that  "there  is  something  very  pleas- 
ing as  well  as  strange  to  the  eye  of  the  visitor  in  the 
aspect  of  many  of  the  streets."  In  the  smnmer  season 
the  streets  have  a  horticultural  aspect.  Most  of  the 
windows  in  the  upper  stories  are  filled  with  flowers  of 
various  kinds,  and  along  the  fronts  of  many  of  the 
houses  are  balconies  so  abundantly  laden  with  every 
diversity  of  flowers,  as  to  have  the  appearance  of  so 
many  gardens.  "  This  fortunately  struck  me,"  says 
James,  ''in  the  middle  of  the  Rue  Saint  Honore;''  but 
he  does  not  say  in  what  months  he  stood  there, — in  July 
probablj^  before  he  went  to  stand  in  the  centre  of  the 
Tuileries,  where  we  have  seen  him  during  August  and 
September.  This  point,  however,  is  of  minor  impor- 
tance; the  main  matter  is  the  description  of  the  town. 
And  who  that  has  been  at  Paris  does  not  recognise  the 
capital  of  Europe  in  the  above  lively  description?  One 
more  circumstance  regarding  the  exterior  aspect  of  the 
town  could  not  be  expected  to  escape  one  of  the  most 
daring  investigators  in  the  world, — it  is  this — the  num- 
ber of  signs.  "  Most  of  these  signs  consist  of  the  name 
and  business  of  the  parties  painted,  as  with  us,  on  a 
hoard  on  the  wall, — in  other  cases  on  the  walls  them- 


GRANT  IN  PARIS  245 

selves,  and  the  gigantic  proportions  of  the  letters  will 
be  understood  when  I  state  that  they  are  often  two  feet 
in  length  and  one  foot  in  breadth."  What  say  you  to 
that,  my  masters?  Is  it  good  to  go  abroad,  or  is  it  not? 
Is  observation  a  noble  quality,  or  is  it  not?  I  say,  that 
Grant  going  into  a  town— a  foreign  town,  not  knowing 
the  language,  as  he  himself  says,  and  discovering  at  a 
glance  the  boards  upon  the  shop  walls,— the  size  of  their 
letters,  and  that  those  letters  were  formed  into  words 
meant  to  describe  "the  name  and  business  of  the 
parties,"  — I  say  that  such  a  man  is  a  man  of  genius. 
What  does  he  want  with  knowing  a  language?  he  knows 
it  without  learning  it,  by  the  intuition  of  great  spirits. 
How  else  could  he  have  ascertained  that  fact,  or  have 
been  aware  that  the  letters  written  upon  the  walls,  as 
with  us  (as  with  us,  mark  you;  nothing  escapes  him  at 
home  or  abroad,  and  he  is  ready  with  a  thousand  rich 
illustrations  to  decorate  the  subject  in  hand)— how,  I 
say,  should  he  have  known  but  by  genius  that  those 
boards,  those  words,  those  letters,  were  not  meant  to  de- 
scribe the  name  and  business  of  some  other  parties  over 
the  way  ?  Pass  we  to  the  inside  of  the  shops ;  'tis,  with- 
out meaning  a  play  upon  words,  a  natural  transition:— 

"  The  Paris  shops  are  remarkable  for  the  number  and  size  of 
their  mirrors.  Look  in  what  direction  you  may,  after  you  have 
entered,  and  you  see  your  person  reflected  at  full  length.  In  some 
cases,  indeed,  you  can  hardly  see  anything  but  mirrors ;  and  the 
entire  fitting-up  displays  corresponding  taste.  Then,  as  re- 
gards the  arrangement  or  grouping  of  the  articles  for  sale, 
nothing  can  be  more  tasteful.  Everything  in  the  shop  is 
seen,  and  everything  is  seen  to  the  best  advantage.  But  the 
Parisian  shopkeeper  remembers  that  every  passer-by  does  not  enter 
his  shop,  and  therefore  he  very  wisely  bestows  his  special  attention 


246  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

on  his  windows.  The  window  of  a  Parisian  shop — I  am  assuming, 
of  course,  that  it  is  in  the  fancy  line — is  a  sight  worth  going  a 
day's  journey  to  witness;  it  is  quite  a  study — a  perfect  picture. 
It  affords  an  exhibition  of  artistical  skill  of  which  the  people  of 
no  other  country  can  have  any  conception.  I  never  looked  at  a 
French  shopkeeper's  window  without  the  conviction  forcing  itself 
on  my  mind,  that  he  who  arranged  its  contents  must  be  an  artist, 
though  he  may  himself  be  unconscious  of  it ;  and  that  had  he 
turned  his  attention  to  any  department  of  art  requiring  a  com- 
bination of  the  imaginative  faculty  with  an  exquisite  taste  in  the 
practical  embodiment  of  his  notions,  he  must  have  attained  a 
celebrity  of  no  common  order." 

Isn't  it  too  bad  to  say,  after  this,  that  we  do  not  do 
foreigners  justice?  that  we  pretend  in  all  things  to  as- 
sert the  superiority  of  our  country?  Here  is  Jim,  who 
goes  into  a  shop — of  course  assuming  that  it  is  in  the 
fancy  line — and  pays  it  a  compliment  such  as  deserves 
to  get  him  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour.  I  can 
see  him  looking  in  the  glass— not  over  ill-satisfied  with 
himself,  the  sly  rogue!  and  with  his  person  reflected  all 
over  the  shop.  "Perhaps  I  may  here  remark,"  says 
Jim,  "  that  the  pleasing  effect  of  the  Parisian  shops  is 
very  considerably  heightened  by  the  number  of  beauti- 
ful and  well-dressed  women  that  are  to  be  found  in 
them."  The  perhaps,  indeed!  The  rogue,  the  sly 
rogue,  the  wicked  abominable  rogue!  But  mum  is  the 
word,  dear  James.  Let  us  not  touch  on  this  painful, 
this  delicate  theme. 

James's,  however,  is  no  blind  admiration — no  Gallo- 
mania (if  he  will  allow  me  the  expression).  If  he 
praises  some  things,  he  blames  others — viz.  the  gutters 
in  the  streets; — "those  puddles  or  miniature  rivers  of 
mud  which  assail  the  eye,  and  another  organ  which  it  is 


GRANT  IN  PARIS  247 

needless  to  name."  (Blessings  on  him — my  James — 
my  Jim— my  dear,  dear  friend!  I  don't  know  him;  but 
as  I  write  about  him,  and  think  about  him,  I  love  him 
more  and  more.)  The  remedy  for  these  gutters  his 
eagle  eye  at  once  sees. 

"  The  remedy,"  says  he,  "  is  cheap,  simple,  efficacious. 
Let  conduits  be  formed  underground  and  the  thing  is 
done."  Ought  not  the  Ville  de  Paris  to  thank  him  for 
this ;  and  instead  of  spending  their  money  in  presenting 
swords  to  the  Comte  de  Paris,  and  erecting  tawdry  gim- 
cracks  of  lamps  and  fountains,  present  .James  with  some- 
thing handsome?  Since  the  gentleman  w^ho  has  a  good 
memory  has  been  writing  in  this  INIagazine,  it  is  read  with 
anxiety  at  the  French  court.  This  I  know  to  be  a  fact. 
And,  perhaps,  these  humble  lines  may  fall  under  the  eye 

of  ]VI y,  to  whom  I  would  say,  "  Sire,  remember  Jim 

Grant!" 

There  are  other  nuisances  in  Paris  which  the  untiring 
observer  points  out  —  "small  exposed  constructions, 
which  invite  the  passers-by,"  and  which  will,  doubtless, 
be  hurled  down  by  the  withering  denunciations  of  the  in- 
dignant moralist— for  instance,  the  cabs.  "  The  cabs," 
says  he,  "  are,  for  the  most  part,  the  same  in  form  as  they 
are  with  us:  so  are  the  coaches.  Connected  with  the  driv- 
ers of  the  former,  especially,  there  is  one  very  unpleasant 
thing.  I  allude  to  the  fact  that,  in  a  great  many,  though 
not  in  a  majority  of  these  vehicles,  the  driver  actually 
sets  himself  down  alongside  his  passenger.  No  matter 
how  dirty  his  appearance  may  be,  he  will  actually  plant 
himself  beside  the  finest  and  most  elegantly  dressed  lady 
in  the  land." 

"  This,"  Jim  says,  in  a  tone  of  melancholy,  almost  ten- 
der reproof,  "he  should  not  have  expected  from  the 


248  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Parisians."  And,  indeed,  it  ought  to  be  looked  to.  A 
duchess  wants  to  go  to  court;  a  marchioness  wishes  to 
pay  her  respects  to  her  friend  the  Countess  of  So-and-so. 
It  rains ;  and,  of  course,  she  calls  a  cab.  Can  her  lady- 
ship do  otherwise  ?  And  when  in  that  cab,  dressed  out  in 
silks  and  satins,  with  a  swan's-down  muff  and  tippet,  and 
feathers  in  her  head  very  possibly,  is  a  filthy  cabman  to 
set  himself  alongside  of  her?  Faugh!  This  must  be 
amended.  And  many  a  noble  dame  of  the  Faubourg  will 
thank  Jim,  a  foreigner  and  a  man  of  letters,  for  pointing 
out  this  intolerable  nuisance.  Now  let  us  give  a  rapid 
glance  with  James  at  the  city,  which  was  never  described 
so  delightfully  before: — 

[A  long  description  of  the  Boulevards  and  "  Palais  Royale."] 

The  whole  annals  of  literature  (if  I  may  be  allowed 
the  expression)  contain,  I  fearlessly  assert,  no  descrip- 
tion like  this.  "  The  Grosvenor,  the  Belgrave,  the  Berke- 
ley, the  Portman,  the  Bryanstone,  the  Russell  squares  " 
(how  finely  does  he  keep  up  the  genteel  gradation)  "  are 
wholly  unknown  in  France."  Ay!  and  so  I  may  say  are 
the  Bloomsbury,  the  Red  Lion  too;  and  the  more  is  the 
pity.  If  I  had  children,  and  wished  to  form  their  tender 
minds,  I  would  have  a  sort  of  catechism  made  of  the 
above  description,  which  they  should  be  made  to  get  by 
heart.    As  thus:  — 

Q.  What  is  the  Boulevard? 

A.  A  sort  of  avenue  formed  by  trees. 

Q.  What  is  its  aspect? 

A.  Its  aspect  is  at  once  rural  and  architectural,  or 
rather  (this  distinction  is  uncommonly  fine)  presents  an 
instance  in  which  the  rural  and  the  architectural  are  hap- 
pily blended. 


GRANT  IN  PARIS  249 

Q.  How  is  the  pavement  formed  ? 

A.  Of  asphalte  materials. 

Q.  How  is  its  effect  impaired? 

A.  By  circular  patches  of  earth. 

Q.  What  imparts  to  the  Boulevards  their  greatest 
charms  ? 

A.  Their  curvatures. 

Q.  What  locality  is  most  frequently  in  the  thoughts 
and  on  the  lips  of  a  Frenchman? 

A.  The  Palais  Royale. 

Q.  Why  do  you  spell  Royale  with  an  e? 

A.  Because  I  choose. 

Q.  Does  a  Parisian  dream  of  the  Palais  Royale  every 
night  ? 

A.  Yes. 

Q.  Is  it  a  more  severe  affliction  to  the  Frenchman  to 
lose  the  Palais  Royale  than  to  lose  his  dear  friend,  wife, 
mother,  or  child  ? 

A.  Yes,  it  is. 

Q.  Is  this  an  exaggeration? 

A.  Not  in  the  least  to  those  who  know  Paris.    &c.  &c. 

And  then  the  question  comes,  How  did  Jim,  not  speak- 
ing a  word  of  French,  find  out  these  things  ?  He  says  he 
took  a  laquais-de-place  at  three  francs  the  half -day,  who 
probably  told  him  these  stories.  But  I  have  too  high  an 
opinion  of  Jim's  economy  to  suppose  he  would  hire  one 
of  these  fellows  for  many  days  together ;  and,  indeed,  he 
very  soon  appears  to  have  got  a  smattering  of  the  lan- 
guage, and  to  push  on  for  hin^self .  Thus,  he  used  to  go 
to  a  barber's,  and  he  calls  him  "  Monsieur  Tonsor."  This 
he  never  could  have  done  had  he  not  known  French — 
INIonsieur  being  French  for  Mister,  and  Tonsor  meaning 
barber  in  the  Latin  language.     Again,  we   find  him 


250  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

speaking  French  with  respect  to  hats  in  the  noble  pas- 
sage where  he  says:  — 

"  Of  all  parts  of  a  Parisian's  dress,  that  which  he  is  most  par- 
ticular about  is  his  hat.  I  am  confident  that  any  man  might  with 
safety  bet  that,  out  of  every  hundred  hats  you  see  on  the  heads 
of  the  pedestrians  in  Paris,  not  more  than  one  in  ten  mil  be 
found  to  be  bad.  A  Frenchman  seems  to  consider  his  '  chapeau  ' 
as  part  of  himself.  He  would  just  as  soon  be  seen  with  an  un- 
washed face  as  with  a  shabby  hat.  It  is  to  him  what  a  bonnet 
is  to  a  lady.  It  is  true  the  Parisian  gentlemen  do  not  talk  of 
their  new  hats  as  ladies  do  about  their  new  bonnets ;  but  they  are 
not  on  that  account  the  less  delighted  when  they  see  a  beautiful 
'  chapeau.'  A  Frenchman  would  sooner  receive  a  blow  which 
would  injure  his  head,  than  one  which  would  damage  his  hat. 
He  will  pardon  an  insult  offered  to  himself,  but  he  will  never 
forgive  you  if  you  destroy  or  injure  his  hat." 

This  is  a  curious  fact;  and  the  story,  coming  from  a 
man  of  honour  and  observation,  will  be  useful  to  our 
young  countrymen  abroad,  who  can  easily  prove  the  cor- 
rectness of  the  narrative  by  kicking  the  first  Frenchman 
they  meet,  and  sitting  on  the  hat  of  the  second.  They 
will  see,  then,  if  Monsieur's  conduct  will  bear  out  Jim's 
assertion.  A  military  man  (of  whom  there  are  plenty) 
would  be  a  good  subject  to  select  for  the  first  experiment. 
But  the  jioint  which  I  wish  to  mark  here  is  the  progress 
he  has  evidently  made  in  the  language ;  on  two  occasions, 
and  in  the  same  sentence,  he  playfully  uses  the  foreign 
word  "  chapeau,"  a  hat — ay,  and  spells  it  right  too,  which 
could  hardly  be  expected  of  him  in  so  short  a  time. 

A  laughable  quid  pro  quo,  if  he  will  pardon  me  the 
term,  occurred  to  him  in  a  conversation  with  one  of  the 
men  of  distinction  to  whom  he  had  letters  of  introduction 
—one  of  the  most  rising  barristers  in  France.    I  shrewdly 


GRANT   IN   PARIS  251 

suspect  Monsieur  Charles  Ledru  to  be  the  man  of  dis- 
tinction in  question. 

He  and  Jim  fell  to  talking  naturally  about  lords  and 

judges.    "  What's  the  opinion  of  Lord ? "  said  the 

French  barrister.  On  which  Grant  expressed  his  idea 
that  his  lordship  was  insane. 

"You  don't  mean  that!"  said  the  other,  falhng  back 
in  his  seat,  and  looking  unutterably  amazed.  "  Thrown 
himself  into  the  Seine! " 

"Oh  no!  I  only  said  that  some  people  thought  him 
insane." 

"All!  in-sane,  not  in  the  Seine.  I  mistook  what  you 
said.    All!  I  see  now." 

Of  course,  nobody  knew  who  was  the  noble  and  learned 
lord  who  gave  rise  to  this  play  upon  words. 

To  do  him  justice,  Jim  very  seldom  indulges  in  them. 
But  w^hen  he  does,  the  dry  rogue!  he  takes  care  to  fix 
upon  a  good  one.  I  have  laughed  at  the  above  heartily 
for  the  last  twenty  years,  and  can  fancy  how  Ledru  and 
Grant  must  have  enjoyed  it  as  they  sat  together  in  the 
parlour  discussing  the  character  of  Lord  Br — .  But 
mum !  the  word  w^as  veiy  nearly  out. 

Jim  had  an  interview  with  Jules  Janin,  which  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  very  satisf actoiy ;  for  though 
Janin  writes  English  books,  he  does  not  understand  a 
word  of  the  language.  Nor  was  our  James  much  more 
skilled  in  the  parley  Fransy,  as  they  say.  Janin  did  not 
ask  him  to  dinner,  nor  probably  did  Ledru ;  for  about  the 
hospitality  of  the  French  he  speaks  in  a  very  sad  and  de- 
sponding tone.  "  Dinner-parties  are  comparatively  rare 
amongst  the  aristocracy  of  France.  When  they  invite 
their  friends  they  ask  them  to  a  soiree;  when  the  refresh- 
ments consist  of  tea  and  coifee,  with  a  little  wine  and 


252  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

cake."  Wine  is  much  cheaper  in  France,  adds  Jim,  who 
does  not  conceal  his  disappointment,  and  has  probably 
been  asked  to  some  soiree,  where,  after  going  to  the 
expense  of  a  cab,  a  fresh  shirt-collar,  and  a  pair  of  white 
Berlin  gloves,  he  has  been  fobbed  off  with  a  glass  of 
sour  wine-and-water  and  a  biscuit.  And  yet,  in  spite  of 
this  disappointment,  I  think  there  is  nothing  I  would 
more  like  to  have  seen  than  James  at  one  of  these  French 
parties  of  the  "  aristocracy,"  pulling  a  queer  face  over  a 
glass  of  orgeat  (pronounced  or  jaw)  while  the  nionsieurs 
were  thinking  him  a  great  literary  man. 

What  he  calls  the  table-d'hotes  (for  his  expressions 
are  invariably  happy)  seem  to  have  pleased  him  a  good 
deal.  None  but  the  aristocracy,  he  says,  ever  dream  of 
"  putting  up  "  in  "  Meurice's,"  from  which  choice  place 
the  honest  fellow  accordingly  kept  away.  "  No  man 
must  think  of  dining  there,"  he  says,  sadly, ''  under  from 
fifteen  to  twenty  francs ; "  and  he  does  not  think  the 
average  price  of  a  bed  can  be  less  than  eight  or  ten  francs 
per  night.  But  it  is  not  so,  dear  Jim;  and  out  of  respect 
to  a  worthy  landlord  whom  you  have  injured,  you  should 
alter  this  passage  in  your  second  condition.  You  might 
have  gone  with  perfect  safety  and  asked  the  question  of 
the  waiter.  Snobs  are  admitted  at  Meurice's  as  well  as 
gentlemen.  Why,  then,  should  James  Grant  be  denied 
admittance  to  the  "  most  famous  of  the  Parisian  estab- 
lishments "  ? 

About  the  two-franc  dinners  of  which  the  French  aris- 
tocracy partake,  our  dear  friend  is  much  better  informed. 
*'  I  met  with  no  instance,"  says  he,  "  in  which  the  charge 
exceeded  two  francs  and  a  half,  including  a  pint,  or  half 
a  bottle  of  vin  ordinaire.  There  are,  indeed,  some  respec- 
table houses  where  the  charge  is  as  low  as  a  franc  and  a 


GRANT  IN  PARIS  253 

half.  The  most  common  price,  however,  is  two  francs; 
and  for  this  sum  ( twenty  pence  of  our  money ) ,  with  an 
additional  three-halfpence  or  twopence  in  the  shape  of  a 
gratuity  to  the  waiter,  you  can  have  a  dinner  which  never 
fails  to  suit  the  most  dainty  palate."  He  then  describes 
the  bill  of  fare,  and  says,  "  Would  the  most  passionate 
admirer  of  a  good  dinner  desire  more?"  Jim  says  a 
great  amount  of  business  is  done  in  these  houses,  and 
used  to  take  his  dinner  in  a  "  very  celebrated  one,  up  three 
pair  of  stairs  in  the  Palais  Royal."  Bless  him  once  more, 
I  say ;  bless  him.  He  is  a  dainty  dog,  fond  of  good  vic- 
tuals and  fine  things.  The  aristocracy  in  Paris  seem  to 
be  shabby  fellows;  he  never  saw  a  carpet  in  any  house 
except  an  English  one,  and  thought  with  pride  of  Kid- 
derminster, the  luxurious  rogue! 

He  does  not  appear  to  have  seen  "  Chautebriand,"  but 
says  he  is  a  member  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  a  re- 
publican in  principles,  and  that  he  goes  weekly  to  weep 
over  the  tomb  of  Armand  Carrel.  A  "  priest "  by  the 
name  of  Ginode  is  also  mentioned  as  a  priest  of  republi- 
can principles,  which  are,  moreover,  those  of  Jim.  The 
first  thing  he  remarks  about  the  Chamber  of  Deputies 
(for  the  feUow  goes  everywhere)  is  that  the  seats  are 
incomparably  superior  to  those  in  our  House  of  Com- 
mons. These  seats  bear  ample  proofs  that  the  pen-knives 
of  honourable  members  are  not  idle,  for  they  are  covered 
with  all  sorts  of  hieroglyphics,  the  works  of  the  French 
legislators. 

As  Jim  contemplated  these,  "  schoolboy  recollections," 
he  aflPectingly  says,  rushed  into  his  mind,  and  his 
thoughts  reverted,  with  a  rapidity  surpassing  that  with 
which  light  travels,  to  a  period  full  thirty  years  ago,  when 
he,  Jim,  used  to  see  so  many  of  his  companions  soundly 


254  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

thrashed  by  their  "  teacher  for  doing  precisely  similar 

199 

How  different  the  scene  is  now !  Then  Jim  was  a  boy, 
getting  probably,  with  other  boys  at  Eton,  where  he  was 
brought  up,  some  cuts  from  the  usher  across  his  own — 
organ,  Avhich  it  is  needless  to  name.  Now  he  is  a  man, 
honoured,  wise,  and  wealthy.  He  has  improved  his  mind 
by  study  in  Long  Acre,  and  afterwards  abroad  by  for- 
eign travel.  He  has  taken  his  place  with  the  learned  of 
the  land.  People  look  up  to  him  as  their  instructor  and 
friend.  Only  this  minute  comes  up  to  me  a  venerable 
gentleman  in  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  who  says,  "  Reading 
Mr.  Grant's  new  work,  Fitz-Boodle?  An  able  man,  sir, 
though  I  think  he  has  somewhat  fallen  off." 

Fallen  off!  O  jimini  (as  the  poet  observes)  !  fallen 
off?  No,  Jim  is  better  than  ever.  He  grows  more  rich 
the  more  he  publishes.  His  ideas  are  not  like  those  of 
some  feeble  writers  who  give  birth  to  an  idea  and  die. 
No,  Jim  is  always  ready,  always  abundant;  no  subject 
will  ever  find  him  at  a  loss,  no  plummet  will  ever  sound 
the  depth  of  his  tremendous  dulness.  Why  is  he  mere 
private  man  still?  Why  is  he  not  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  making  senates  shout  with  his  eloquence?  I 
am  sure  that  he  would  speak  to  perfection.  I  am  sure 
that  worthy  people  in  the  country  would  rally  round  him. 
I  have  a  very  strong  notion  indeed  that  he  is  the  "  coming 
man  "  for  whom  we  are  on  the  look-out.  Other  people 
may  doubt  and  be  perplexed,  but,  depend  upon  it,  he 
never  feels  a  difficulty.  Jim  has  achieved  fortune  and 
fame  as,  perhaps,  no  man  ever  achieved  it.  He  has  pub- 
lished five-and-twenty  volumes  of  such  a  quality  as  per- 
haps the  whole  world  cannot  elsewhere  produce ;  and  his 
success  is  to  the  world  and  himself  a  credit.    It  shows  that 


GRANT   IN   PARIS  255 

a  good  writer  need  not  despair  nowadays.  Burns  died  a 
beggar,  for  instance,  and  Jim  Grant  will  probably  leave 
a  good  round  sum  at  his  lamented  demise.  And  so  he 
should  with  such  a  public  as  ours,  so  alive  to  genius,  so 
\\ase  a  critic  of  good  writing,  so  able  an  appreciator  of  fine 
wit.  Jim  is  worthy  of  the  public,  and  the  public  of  him. 
May  they  long  both  flourish,  each  honouring  the  other! 

Sometimes  popular  writers  find  themselves  outstripped 
of  a  sudden  by  younger  rivals,  and  deserted  in  their  old 
age.  I  do  not  think  in  Jim's  case  this  is  likely,  or  even 
possible.  I  do  not  think  the  world  can  produce  a  greater 
than  Jim.  Honour  to  him  and  his  patron!  He  has  al- 
ready written  five-and-twenty  volumes ;  let  us  hope  and 
pray  for  scores  more.  I  have  requested  ]Mr.  Titmarsh, 
the  eminent  artist,  to  copy  his  picture  and  hang  it  up  in 
the  heroic  picture  gallery,  by  the  side  of  *  *  *  *  and — ^ 

One  word  more.  The  revelations  in  this  book  concern- 
ing Louis  Philippe  will  be  found  of  the  highest  interest. 
I  think  Jim's  description  of  the  king  beats  that  of  the 
gentleman  with  the  good  memory  completely.  "  Louis," 
says  Grant,  "  is  tall  and  portly  in  his  person.  His  face 
partakes  of  the  oval  shape,  and  his  cheeks  are  rather 

FLUFFY." 

Farewell,  and  Heaven  bless  him!    I  have  ordered  all 

his  books  at  the  club, — not  to  read  them  at  once,  that 

would  be  impossible,  but  to  meditate  over  favourite  bits 

and  con  over  old  familiar  pages.     Familiar!  why  do  I 

say  familiar  ?    Fresh  beauties  bubble  up  in  them  at  every 

moment — new    expressions,    and    vast    and    wonderful 

thoughts.  G.  S.  F.-B. 

(Fraser's  Magazine,  December  1843.) 

^  Here  our  friend  Fitz  grew  so  abominably  scurrilous  that  we 
were  obliged  to  expunge  the  sentence.— O.  Y. 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS 

• 

r I  J  HE  Argument.— M.Y.  Yorke  having  despatched 
y  to  Mr.  Titmarsh,  in  Switzerland,  a  box  of  novels 
(carriage  paid),  the  latter  returns  to  Oliver  an  essay 
upon  the  same,  into  which  he  introduces  a  variety  of  other 
interesting  discourse.  He  treats  of  the  severity  of  crit- 
ics ;  of  his  resolution  to  reform  in  that  matter,  and  of  the 
nature  of  poets ;  of  Irishmen ;  of  Harry  Lorrequer,  and 
that  Harry  is  a  sentimental  writer;  of  Harry's  critics; 
of  Tom  Burke;  of  Rory  O'JNIore;  of  the  Young  Pre- 
tender and  the  Duke  of  Bordeaux ;  of  Irish  Repeal  and 
Repeal  songs ;  concerning  one  of  which  he  addresseth  to 
Rory  O'JNIore  words  of  tender  reproach.  He  mentioneth 
other  novels  found  in  the  box,  viz.  "  The  JNIiser's  Son," 
and  "  The  Burgomaster  of  Berhn."  He  bestoweth  a 
parting  benediction  on  Boz. 

Some  few — very  few  years  since,  dear  sir,  in  our  hot 
youth,  when  Will  the  Fourth  was  king,  it  was  the  fashion 
of  many  young  and  ardent  geniuses  who  contributed 
their  share  of  high  spirits  to  the  columns  of  this  ]Maga- 
zine,  to  belabour  with  unmerciful  ridicule  almost  all  the 
writers  of  this  country  of  England,  to  sneer  at  their 
scholarship,  to  question  their  talents,  to  shout  with  fierce 
laugliter  over  their  faults  historical,  poetical,  grammati- 
cal, and  sentimental;  and  thence  to  leave  the  reader  to 
deduce  our  (the  critics')  own  immense  superiority  in  all 

256 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  257 

the  points  which  we  questioned  in  all  the  world  beside.  I 
say  our,  because  the  undersigned  Michael  Angelo  has 
handled  the  tomahawk  as  well  as  another,  and  has  a  scalp 
or  two  drying  in  his  lodge. 

Those  times,  dear  Yorke,  are  past.  I  found  you,  on 
visiting  London  last  year,  grown  fat  (pardon  me  for 
saying  so)  — fat  and  peaceful.  Your  children  clambered 
smiling  about  your  knee.  You  did  not  disdain  to  cut 
bread  and  butter  for  them ;  and,  as  you  poured  out  their 
milk  and  water  at  supper,  I  could  not  but  see  that  you, 
too,  had  imbibed  much  of  that  sweet  and  wholesome  milk 
of  human  kindness,  at  which  in  youth  we  are  ready  to 
sneer  as  a  vapid  and  unprofitable  potion ;  but  whereof  as 
manhood  advances  we  are  daily  more  apt  to  recognise 
the  healthful  qualities.  For  of  all  diets  good-humour  is 
the  most  easy  of  digestion ;  if  it  does  not  create  that  mad 
boisterous  flow  of  spirits  which  greater  excitement  causes, 
it  has  yet  a  mirth  of  its  own,  pleasanter,  truer,  and  more 
lasting  than  the  intoxication  of  sparkling  satire;  above 
all,  one  rises  the  next  morning  without  fever  or  headache, 
and  without  the  dim  and  frightful  consciousness  of  hav- 
ing broken  somebody's  undeserving  bones  in  a  frolic, 
while  under  the  satirical  frenzy.  You  are  grown  mild — 
we  are  all  grown  mild.  I  saw  jNIorgan  Rattler  going 
home  with  a  wooden  horse  for  his  little  son.  Men  and 
fathers,  we  can  assault  men  and  fathers  no  more. 

Besides,  a  truth  dawns  upon  the  mature  mind,  which 
may  thus  be  put  by  interrogation.  Because  a  critic, 
deeming  A  and  B  to  be  blockheads  for  whom  utter  de- 
struction is  requisite,  forthwith  sets  to  work  to  destroy 
them,  is  it  clear  that  the  public  are  interested  in  that  work 
of  demolition,  and  that  they  admire  the  critic  hugely  for 
his  pains?    At  my  present  mature  age,  I  am  inclined  to 


258  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

think  that  the  nation  does  not  much  care  for  this  sort  of 
executiveness ;  and  that  it  looks  upon  the  press-Mohawks 
(this  is  not  the  least  personal)  as  it  did  upon  the  gallant 
young  noblemen  who  used  a  few  years  since  to  break  the 
heads  of  policemen,  and  paint  apothecaries'  shops  pea- 
green,— with  amusement,  perhaps,  but  with  anything  but 
respect  and  liking.  And  as  those  young  noblemen,  rec- 
ognising the  justice  of  public  opinion,  have  retired  to 
their  estates,  which  they  are  now  occupied  peacefully  in 
administering  and  improving,  so  have  the  young  earls 
and  marquesses  of  the  court  of  Regina  of  Regent  Street 
calmly  subsided  into  the  tillage  of  the  pleasant  fields  of 
literature,  and  the  cultivation  of  the  fresh  green  crops  of 
good-humoured  thought.  My  little  work  on  the  differ- 
ential calculus,  for  instance,  is  in  a  most  advanced  state ; 
and  you  will  correct  me  if  I  break  a  confidence  in  saying, 
that  your  translation  of  the  first  hundred  and  ninety-six 
chapters  of  the  JNIahabharata  will  throw  some  extraordi- 
nary light  upon  a  subject  most  intensely  interesting  to 
England,  viz.  the  Sanscrit  theosophy. 

This  introduction,  then,  will  have  prepared  you  for  an 
exceedingly  humane  and  laudatory  notice  of  the  packet 
of  works  which  you  were  good  enough  to  send  me,  and 
which,  though  they  doubtless  contain  a  great  deal  that 
the  critic  would  not  write  (from  the  extreme  delicacy  of 
his  taste  and  the  vast  range  of  his  learning) ,  also  contain, 
between  ourselves,  a  great  deal  that  the  critic  could  not 
write  if  he  would  ever  so:  and  this  is  a  truth  which  critics 
are  sometimes  apt  to  forget  in  their  judgments  of  works 
of  fiction.  Asa  rustical  boy,  hired  at  twopence  per  week, 
may  fling  stones  at  the  blackbirds  and  drive  them  off 
and  possibly  hit  one  or  two,  yet  if  he  get  into  the  hedge 
and  begin  to  sing,  he  will  make  a  wretched  business  of 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  259 

the  music,  and  Lubin  and  Colin  and  the  dullest  swains 
of  the  village  will  laugh  egregiously  at  his  folly;  so  the 
critic  employed  to  assault  the  poet—  But  the  rest  of 
the  simile  is  obvious,  and  will  be  apprehended  at  once  by 
a  person  of  your  experience. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  blackbirds  of  letters— the  harm- 
less, kind  singing  creatures  who  line  the  hedgesides  and 
chirp  and  twitter  as  nature  bade  them  (they  can  no  more 
help  singing,  these  poets,  than  a  flower  can  help  smelling 
sweet),  have  been  treated  much  too  ruthlessly  by  the 
watch-boys  of  the  press,  who  have  a  love  for  flinging 
stones  at  the  little  innocents,  and  j^retend  that  it  is  their 
duty,  and  that  every  wren  or  sparrow  is  likely  to  destroy 
a  whole  field  of  wheat,  or  to  turn  out  a  monstrous  bird 
of  prey.  Leave  we  these  vain  sports  and  savage  pastimes 
of  youth,  and  turn  we  to  the  benevolent  philosophy  of 
maturer  age. 

A  characteristic  of  the  Irish  writers  and  people,  which 
has  not  been  at  all  appreciated  by  the  English,  is,  I  think, 
that  of  extreme  melancholv.  All  Irish  stories  are  sad,  all 
humorous  Irish  songs  are  sad;  there  is  never  a  burst  of 
laughter  excited  by  them  but,  as  I  fancy,  tears  are  near 
at  hand;  and  from  "Castle  Rackrent"  downwards, 
every  Hibernian  tale  that  I  have  read  is  sure  to  leave  a 
sort  of  woeful  tender  impression.  Mr.  Carleton's  books 
— and  he  is  by  far  the  greatest  genius  who  has  written 
of  Irish  life— are  pre-eminently  melancholy.  Griffin's 
best  novel,  "  The  Collegians,"  has  the  same  painful  char- 
acter; and  I  have  always  been  surprised,  while  the  uni- 
versal English  critic  has  been  laughing  over  the  stirring 
stories  of  "  Harry  Lorrequer,"  that  he  has  not  recognised 
the  fund  of  sadness  beneath.  The  most  jovial  song  that 
I  know  of  in  the  Irish  language  is  "  The  Night  before 


260  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Larry  was  stretched ;  "  but,  along  with  the  joviahty,  you 
always  carry  the  impression  of  the  hanging  the  next 
morning.  "  The  Groves  of  Blarney  "  is  the  richest  non- 
sense that  the  world  has  known  since  the  days  of  Rabe- 
lais; but  is  it  not  very  pathetic  nonsense?  The  folly  is 
uttered  with  a  sad  look,  and  to  the  most  lamentable  wail- 
ing music:  it  affects  you  like  the  jokes  of  Lear's  fool. 
An  Irish  landscape  conveys  the  same  impression.'  You 
may  walk  all  Ireland  through,  and  hardly  see  a  cheerful 
one;  and  whereas  at  five  miles  from  the  spot  where  this 
is  published  or  read  in  England,  you  may  be  sure  to  light 
upon  some  prospect  of  English  nature  smiling  in  plenty, 
rich  in  comfort,  and  delightfully  cheerful,  however  sim- 
ple and  homely,  the  finest  and  richest  landscape  in  Ire- 
land always  appeared  to  me  to  be  sad,  and  the  people  cor- 
responded with  the  place.  But  we  in  England  have 
adopted  our  idea  of  the  Irishman,  and,  like  the  pig-imi- 
tator's audience  in  the  fable  (which  simile  is  not  to  be 
construed  into  an  opinion  on  the  writer's  part  that  the 
Irish  resemble  pigs,  but  simply  that  the  Saxon  is  dull  of 
comprehension) ,  we  will  have  the  sham  Irishman  in  pref- 
erence to  the  real  one,  and  will  laugh  at  the  poor  wag, 
whatever  his  mood  may  be.  The  romance-writers  and 
dramatists  have  wronged  the  Irish  cruelly  (and  so  has 
every  Saxon  among  them,  the  O'Connellites  will  say)  in 
misrepresenting  them  as  they  have  done.  What  a  num- 
ber of  false  accounts,  for  instance,  did  poor  Power  give 
to  English  playgoers,  about  Ireland !  He  led  Cocknej^s 
to  suppose  that  all  that  Irish  gaiety  was  natural  and  con- 
stant ;  that  Paddy  was  in  a  perpetual  whirl  of  high  spir- 
its and  whisky;  for  ever  screeching  and  whooping  mad 
songs  and  wild  jokes;  a  being  entirely  devoid  of  artifice 
and  calculation :  it  is  only  after  an  Englishman  has  seen 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  261 

the  countrj''  that  he  learns  how  false  these  jokes  are;  how 
sad  these  high  spirits,  and  how  cunning  and  fitful  that 
exuberant  joviality,  which  we  have  been  made  to  fancy 
are  the  Irishman's  every-day  state  of  mind.  There  is,  for 
example,  the  famous  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  of  Sheridan, 
at  whose  humours  we  all  laugh  delightfully.  He  is  the 
most  real  character  in  all  that  strange  company  of  profli- 
gates and  swindlers  who  people  Sheridan's  plays,  and  I 
think  the  most  profoundly  dismal  of  all.  The  poor  Irish 
knight's  jokes  are  only  on  the  surface.  He  is  a  hypocrite 
all  through  the  comedv,  and  his  fun  no  more  real  than  his 
Irish  estate.  He  makes  others  laugh,  but  he  does  not 
laugh  himself,  as  Falstaff  does,  and  Sydney  Smith,  and 
a  few  other  hearty  humourists  of  the  British  sort. 

So  when  he  reads  in  the  "  Opinions  of  the  Press  "  how 
the  provincial  journalists  are  affected  with  Mr.  Lever's 
books;  how  the  Do?} caster  Argus  declares,  "We  have 
literally  roared  with  laughter  over  the  last  number  of 
'  Our  Mess '  ; "  or  the  Mancc  Mercury  vows  it  has  "  abso- 
lutely burst  with  cachinnation  "  over  the  facetue  of  friend 
Harry  Lorrequer;  or  the  Bungay  Beacon  has  been 
obliged  to  call  in  two  printer's  devils  to  hold  the  editorial 
sides  while  perusing  "  Charles  O'Malley's  "  funny  sto- 
ries; let  the  reader  be  assured  that  he  has  fallen  upon 
critical  opinions  not  worth  the  having.  It  is  impossible 
to  yell  with  laughter  through  thirty-two  pages.  Laugh- 
ter, to  be  worth  having,  can  only  come  by  fits  and  now 
and  then.  The  main  body  of  your  laughter-inspiring 
book  must  be  calm ;  and  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  give  an 
opinion  about  Lorrequer  after  all  that  has  been  said  for 
and  against  him,  after  the  characteristics  of  boundless 
merriment  which  the  English  critic  has  found  in  him, 
and  the  abuse  which  the  Irish  writers  have  hurled  at 


262  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

him  for  presenting  degrading  pictures  of  the  national 
character,  it  would  be  to  enter  a  calm  protest  against  both 
opinions,  and  say  that  the  author's  characteristic  is  not 
humour,  but  sentiment, — neither  more  nor  less  than  senti- 
ment, in  spite  of  all  the  rollicking  and  bawling,  and  the 
songs  of  Micky  Free,  and  the  horse-racing,  and  punch- 
making,  and  charging,  and  steeplechasing — the  quality 
of  the  Lorrequer  stories  seems  to  me  to  be  extreme  deli- 
cacy, sweetness,  and  kindliness  of  heart.  The  spirits  are 
for  the  most  part  artificial,  the  fond  is  sadness,  as  ap- 
pears to  me  to  be  that  of  most  Irish  writing  and  people. 

Certain  Irish  critics  will  rise  up  in  arms  against  this 
dictum,  and  will  fall  foul  of  the  author  of  the  paradox 
and  of  the  subject  of  these  present  remarks  too.  For 
while  we  have  been  almost  universal  in  our  praise  of  Lor- 
requer in  England,  no  man  has  been  more  fiercely  buf- 
feted in  his  own  country,  Mr.  O'Connell  himself  taking 
the  lead  to  attack  this  kindly  and  gentle  writer,  and  thun- 
dering out  abuse  at  him  from  his  cathedra  in  the  Corn 
Exchange.  A  strange  occupation  this  for  a  statesman! 
Fancy  Sir  Robert  Peel  taking  occasion  to  bring  "  Martin 
Chuzzlewit "  before  the  House  of  Commons;  or  the 
American  President  rapping  "  Sam  Slick "  over  the 
knuckles  in  the  thirty-fourth  column  of  his  speech;  or 
Lord  Brougham  attacking  Mr.  Albert  Smith  in  the 
Privy  Council ! 

The  great  Corn  Exchange  critic  says  that  Lorrequer 
has  sent  abroad  an  unjust  opinion  of  the  Irish  character, 
which  he  (the  Corn  Exchange  critic)  is  upholding  by 
words  and  example.  On  this  signal  the  Irish  Liberal 
journals  fall  foul  of  poor  Harry  with  a  ferocity  which 
few  can  appreciate  in  this  country,  where  the  labours  of 
our  Hibernian  brethren  of  the  press  are  little  read.    But 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  2G3 

vou  would  fancy  from  the  Nation  that  the  man  is  a  stark 
traitor  and  incendiary ;  that  he  has  written  a  Hbel  against 
Ireland  such  as  merits  cord  and  fire!  O  patriotic  critic! 
v»'hat  Brutus-like  sacrifices  will  the  literary  man  not  com- 
mit !  what  a  noble  professional  independence  he  has !  how 
free  from  envy  he  is!  how  pleased  with  his  neighbour's 
success!  and  yet  how  ready  (on  public  grounds — of 
course,  only  on  public  grounds)  to  attack  his  nearest 
friend  and  closest  acquaintance!  Although  he  knows 
that  the  success  of  one  man  of  letters  is  the  success  of  all, 
that  with  every  man  who  rises  a  score  of  others  rise  too, 
that  to  make  what  has  hitherto  been  a  struggling  and  un- 
certain calling  an  assured  and  respectable  one,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  some  should  succeed  greatly,  and  that  every 
man  who  lives  by  his  pen  should,  therefore,  back  the 
efforts  and  applaud  the  advancement  of  his  brother ;  yet 
the  virtues  of  professional  literature  are  so  obstinately 
republican,  that  it  will  acknowledge  no  honours,  help  no 
friend,  have  all  on  a  level;  and  so  the  Irish  press  is  at 
present  martyrising  the  most  successful  member  of  its 
body.  His  books  aj^peared;  they  were  very  pleasant; 
Tory  and  Liberal  applauded  alike  the  good-humoured 
and  kind-hearted  writer,  who  quarrelled  with  none,  and 
amused  all.  But  his  publishers  sold  twenty  thousand  of 
his  books.  He  was  a  monster  from  that  moment,  a 
doomed  man;  if  a  man  can  die  of  articles,  Harry  Lorre- 
quer  ought  to  have  yielded  up  the  ghost  long  ago. 

Lorrequer's  military  propensities  have  been  objected 
to  strongly  by  his  squeamish  Hibernian  brethren.  I 
freely  confess,  for  my  part,  that  there  is  a  great  deal  too 
much  fighting  in  the  Lorrequerian  romances  for  my 
taste,  an  endless  clashing  of  sabres,  unbounded  alarums, 
"chambers"  let  off   (as  in  the  old  Shakspeare  stage- 


264  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

directions) ,  the  warriors  drive  one  another  on  and  off  the 
stage  until  the  quiet  citizen  is  puzzled  by  their  inter- 
minable evolutions,  and  gets  a  headache  with  the  smell  of 
the  powder.  But  is  Lorrequer  the  only  man  in  Ireland 
who  is  fond  of  military  spectacles?  Why  do  ten  thou- 
sand people  go  to  the  Phaynix  Park  twice  a  week?  Why 
does  the  Nation  newspaper  publish  those  edifying  and 
Christian  war-songs?  And  who  is  it  that  prates  about 
the  Irish  at  Waterloo,  and  the  Irish  at  Fontenoy,  and  the 
Irish  at  Seringapatam,  and  the  Irish  at  Timbuctoo?  If 
Mr.  O' Council,  like  a  wise  rhetorician,  chooses,  and  very 
properly,  to  flatter  the  national  military  passion,  why 
should  not  Harry  Lorrequer?  There  is  bad  blood,  bitter, 
brutal,  unchristian  hatred  in  every  hne  of  every  single 
ballad  of  the  Nation;  there  is  none  in  the  harmless  war- 
pageants  of  honest  Harry  Lorrequer.  And  as  for  the 
Irish  brigade,  has  not  Mr.  O' Council  bragged  more 
about  that  than  any  other  author  of  fiction  in  or  out  of  his 
country  ? 

The  persons  who  take  exception  to  numerous  hunting 
and  steeple-chasing  descriptions  which  abound  in  these 
volumes  have,  perhaj^s,  some  reason  on  their  side.  Those 
quiet  people  who  have  never  leaped  across  anything  wider 
than  a  gutter  in  Pall  Mall,  or  have  learned  the  chiv- 
alric  art  in  Mr.  Fozard's  riding-school,  are  not  apt  to  be 
extremely  interested  in  hunting  stories,  and  may  find 
themselves  morally  thrown  out  in  the  midst  of  a  long  fox- 
chase,  which  gallops  through  ever  so  many  pages  of  close 
type.  But  these  descriptions  are  not  written  for  such. 
Go  and  ask  a  "  fast  man  "  at  college  what  he  thinks  of 
them.  Go  dine  at  Lord  Cardigan's  mess-table,  and  as 
the  black  bottle  passes  round  ask  the  young  cornets  and 
captains  whether  they  have  read  the  last  number  of 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  265 

"  Tom  Burke,"  and  you  will  see  what  the  answer  will  be. 
At  this  minute  those  pink-bound  volumes  are  to  be  found 
in  every  garrison,  in  every  one  of  the  towns,  colonies, 
islands,  continents,  isthmuses,  and  promontories,  where 
her  Majesty's  flag  floats;  they  are  the  pleasure  of  coun- 
try folk,  high  and  low;  they  are  not  scientific  treatises, 
certainly,  but  are  they  intended  as  such?  They  are  not, 
perhaps,  taken  in  by  Dissenting  clergj'-men  and  doctors 
of  divinity  (though  for  my  part  I  have  seen,  in  the  hall 
of  a  certain  college  of  Dublin,  a  score  of  the  latter,  in 
gowns  and  bands,  crowding  round  Harry  Lorrequer  and 
listening  to  his  talk  with  all  their  might)  ;  but  does  the 
author  aim  especially  at  instructing  their  reverences? 
No.  Though  this  is  a  favourite  method  with  many  critics 
— viz.  to  find  fault  Avith  a  book  for  what  it  does  not  give, 
as  thus:  — "  Lady  Smigsmag's  new  novel  is  amusing,  but 
lamentably  deficient  in  geological  information."  "  Dr. 
Swishtail's  '  Elucidations  of  the  Digamma '  show  much 
sound  scholarship,  but  infer  a  total  absence  of  humour." 
And  "  Mr.  Lever's  tales  are  trashy  and  worthless,  for  his 
facts  are  not  borne  out  by  any  authority,  and  he  gives  us 
no  information  upon  the  political  state  of  Ireland.  Oh ! 
our  country;  our  green  and  beloved,  our  beautiful  and 
oppressed !  accursed  be  the  tongue  that  should  now  speak 
of  aught  but  thy  wrong ;  withered  the  dastard  hand  that 
should  strike  upon  thy  desolate  harp  another  string!" 
&:c.  &c.  &c. 

And  now,  having  taken  exception  to  the  pugnacious 
and  horseracious  parts  of  the  Lorrequer  novels  (whereof 
an  admirable  parody  appeared  some  months  since  in 
T ait's  Magazine) ,  let  us  proceed  to  state  further  charac- 
teristics of  Lorrequer.  His  stories  show  no  art  of  con- 
struction ;  it  is  the  good  old  plan  of  virtue  triumphant  at 


266  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

the  end  of  the  chapter,  vice  being  woefully  demolished 
some  few  pages  previously.  As  Scott's  heroes  were,  for 
the  most  part,  canny,  gallant,  prudent,  modest  young 
North  Britons,  Lorrequer's  are  gallant  young  Irish- 
men, a  little  more  dandified  and  dashing,  perhaps,  than 
such  heroes  as  novelists  create  on  this  side  of  the  water; 
wonderfully  like  each  other  in  personal  qualities  and 
beauty;  but,  withal,  modest  and  scrupulously  pure- 
minded.  And  there  is  no  reader  of  Mr.  Lever's  tales 
but  must  admire  the  extreme,  almost  womanlike,  deli- 
cacy of  the  author,  who,  amidst  all  the  wild  scenes 
through  which  he  carries  his  characters  and  with  all  his 
outbreaks  of  spirits  and  fun,  never  writes  a  sentence  that 
is  not  entirely  pure.  Nor  is  he  singular  in  this  excellent 
chastity  of  thought  and  expression;  it  is  almost  a  na- 
tional virtue  with  the  Irish,  as  any  person  will  acknow- 
ledge who  has  lived  any  time  in  their  country  or  society. 
The  present  hero  of  the  Lorrequerian  cyclus  of  ro- 
mances resembles  the  other  young  gentlemen  whose  his- 
tory they  record  in  his  great  admiration  for  the  military 
profession,  in  the  which,  after  some  adventurous  half- 
dozen  numbers  of  civil  life,  we  find  him  launched. 
Drums,  trumpets,  blunderbusses,  guns,  and  thunder 
form  the  subject  of  the  whole  set,  and  are  emblazoned 
on  the  backs  of  every  one  of  the  volumes.  The  present 
volume  is  bound  in  a  rich  blood-coloured  calico,  and  has  a 
most  truculent  and  ferocious  look.  The  illustrations, 
from  the  hand  of  the  famous  Phiz,  show  to  great  advan- 
tage the  merits  of  that  dashing  designer.  He  draws  a 
horse  admirably,  a  landscape  beautifully,  a  female  figure 
with  extreme  grace  and  tenderness;  but  as  for  his  hu- 
mour, it  is  stark  naught;  ay,  worse!  the  humorous  faces 
are  bad  caricatures,  without,  as  I  fanc}^  the  slightest 


A  BOX   OF  NOVELS  267 

provocation  to  laughter.  If  one  were  to  meet  these  mon- 
sters expanded  from  two  inches  to  six  feet,  people  would 
be  frightened  by  them,  not  amused,  so  cruel  are  their 
grimaces  and  unearthly  their  ugliness.  And  a  study  of 
the  admirable  sketches  of  RafFet  and  Charlet  would 
have  given  the  designer  a  better  notion  of  the  costume 
of  the  soldiery  of  the  Consulate  than  that  which  he  has 
adopted.  Indeed,  one  could  point  out  sundry  errors  in 
costume  which  the  author  himself  has  committed,  were  the 
critic  inclined  to  be  severely  accurate,  and  not  actuated  by 
that  overflowing  benevolence  which  is  so  delightful  to  feel. 
"  Tom  Burke  of  Ours  "  ^  is  so  called  because  he  enters 
the  French  service  at  an  early  age;  but  his  opening  ad- 
ventures occur  at  the  close  of  the  rebellion,  before  the 
union  of  Ireland  and  England,  and  before  the  empire  of 
Napoleon.  The  opening  chapters  are  the  best  because 
they  are  the  most  real.  The  author  is  more  at  home  in 
Ireland  than  in  the  French  camp  or  capital,  the  scenes 
and  landscapes  he  describes  there  are  much  more  natu- 
rally depicted,  and  the  characters  to  whom  he  introduces 
us  more  striking  and  lifelike.  The  novel  opens  gloomily 
and  picturesquely.  Old  Burke  is  dying,  alone  in  his  dis- 
mal old  tumble-down  house,  somewhere  near  the  famous 
town  of  Athlone  (who  can  describe  with  sufficient  deso- 
lation the  ride  from  that  city  to  Ballinasloe?).  Old 
Burke  is  dying,  and  this  is  young  Tom's  description  of 
the  appearance  of  an  old  house  at  home. 

[A  long  extract  is  omitted.] 

How  Tom  Burke  further  fared — how  he  escaped  the 
dragoon's  sabre  and  the  executioner's  rope— how  he  be- 

^Our  Mess.  Edited  by  Charles  Lever  (Harry  Lorrequer).  Vol.  ii.  Tom 
Burke  of  Ours,  \oL  i.  Dublin:  Curry,  jun.  &  Co.  London:  Orr.  Edinburgh: 
Eraser  &   Co.      1844. 


268  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

came  the  protege  of  the  facetious  Bubbleton  (a  most  mi- 
natural  character  certainly,  but  who  is  drawn  exactly 
from  a  great  living  model)  — how  Captain  de  Meudon, 
the  French  cuirassier,  took  a  liking  to  the  lad,  and  died  in  a 
uniform  sparkling  with  crosses  (which  crosses  were  not 
yet  invented  in  France) ,  leaving  Tom  a  sum  of  money,  and 
a  recommendation  to  the  Ecole  Polytechnique  (where, 
by  the  way,  students  are  not  admitted  with  any  such 
recommendations)  — how  Tom  escaped  to  France,  and 
beheld  the  great  First  Consul,  and  was  tried  for  the  in- 
fernal machine  affair,  and  was  present  at  the  glorious 
field  of  Austerlitz,  and  made  war,  and  blunders,  and 
love — are  not  all  these  things  written  in  the  blood-col- 
oured volume  embroidered  with  blunderbusses  aforesaid, 
and  can  the  reader  do  better  than  recreate  himself  there- 
with? Indeed,  as  the  critic  lays  down  the  lively,  spark- 
ling, stirring  volume,  and  thinks  of  its  tens  of  thousands 
of  readers;  and  that  it  is  lying  in  the  little  huckster's 
window  at  Dunleary,  and  upon  the  artillery  mess-table 
at  Damchun ;  and  that  it  is,  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt, 
taken  in  at  Hong-kong,  where  poor  dear  Commissioner 
Lin  has  gazed,  delighted,  at  the  picture  of  "  Peeping 
Tom ;  "  or  that  it  is  to  be  had  at  the  Library,  Cape  Town, 
where  the  Dutch  boors  and  the  Hottentot  princes  are 
longing  for  the  reading  of  it— the  critic,  I  say,  consider- 
ing the  matter  merely  in  a  geographical  point  of  view, 
finds  himself  overcome  by  an  amazing  and  blushing 
modesty,  timidly  apologises  to  the  reader  for  discoursing 
to  him  about  a  book  which  the  universal  public  peruses, 
and  politely  takes  his  leave  of  the  writer  by  wishing  him 
all  health  and  prosj^erity. 

By  the  way,  one  solemn  protest  ought  to  be  made  re- 
garding the  volume.     The  monster  of  the  latter  part  is 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  269 

a  certain  truculent  captain  (who  is  very  properly  done 
for),  and  who  goes  by  the  name  of  Ainedee  Pichot. 
Why  this  name  above  all  others  ?  Why  not  Jules  Janin, 
or  Alexandre  Dumas,  or  Eugene  Sue  ?  Amedee  Pichot 
is  a  friend  to  England  in  a  country  where  friends  to 
England  are  rare,  and  worth  having.  Amedee  Pichot 
is  the  author  of  the  excellent  life  of  Charles  Edward, 
the  friend  of  Scott,  and  the  editor  of  the  Revue  Britan- 
nique,  in  which  he  inserts  more  translations  from  Frasers 
Magazine  than  from  any  other  periodical  produced  in 
this  empire.  His  translations  of  the  works  of  a  certain 
gentleman  with  a  remarkably  good  memory  have  been 
quoted  by  scores  of  French  newspapers;  his  version  of 
other  articles  ( which,  perhaps,  modestj^  forbids  the  pres- 
ent writer  to  name)  has  given  the  French  people  a  most 
exalted  idea  of  English  lighter  literature;  he  is  such  a 
friend  to  English  literature,  that  he  will  not  review  a 
late  work  called  "  Paris  and  the  Parisians,"  lest  Frence 
should  have  a  contemptible  opinion  of  our  tourists;  it  is 
a  sin  and  a  shame  that  Harry  Lorrequer  should  have 
slaughtered  Amedee  Pichot  in  this  wanton  and  cruel 
manner. 

And  now,  having  said  our  little  say  regarding  "  Tom 
Burke,"  we  come  to  the  work  of  an  equally  famous  Irish 
novelist,  the  ingenious,  the  various  author  of  "  <£.  S. 
D.,"  ^  latterly  called,  though  we  know  not  for  what  very 
good  reason,  "  Treasure  Trove."  ^  It  is  true  that  some- 
thing concerning  a  treasure  is  to  be  discovered  at  the 

'^  £.  S.  D.;  or,  Accounts  of  Irish  Heirs  furnished  to  the  Public  monthly. 
By  Samuel  Lover.     London:  I>over,  and  Groomhridge.     1843. 

"nf  the  respected  critic  had  read  the  preface  of  Mr.  Lover's  work,  he 
would  have  perceived  that  £.  S.  D.  is  the  general  name  of  a  series  of  works, 
of  which  Treasjire  Trove  is  only  the  first.  Those  who  know  Ireland  must  be 
aware  that  Ihe  title  £.  S.  D.  "is  singularly  applicable  to  that  country,  the 
quantity  of  specie  there  being  immense — only  a  good  deal  of  it  is  yet  un- 
discovered.—O.  Y. 


270  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

latter  end  of  the  novel,  but  "  £.  S.  D.,"  or  D.  C.  L.,  or 
what  you  will,  is  quite  as  good  a  title  as  another.  It  is 
the  rose  smells  sweet,  and  not  the  name  of  it — at  least  I 
take  it  it  is  only  a  publisher  who  would  assert  the  con- 
trary. For  instance,  everybody  quarrels  with  the  title 
of  "Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  and  all  that  incomprehensible 
manifesto  about  the  silver  spoons  and  the  family  plate 
which  followed;  but  did  we  read  it  the  less?  No.  The 
British  public  is  of  that  order  of  gormandisers  which 
would  like  a  cabinet  pudding,  even  though  you  called  it 
hard-dumpling,  and  is  not  to  be  taken  in  by  titles  in  the 
main.  " £.  S.  D."  is  a  good  name;  may  all  persons  con- 
cerned have  plenty  of  it! 

The  present  tale  of  Mr.  Lover's  contains  more  action 
and  incident  than  are  to  be  found  in  his  former  works. 
It  is  an  historical  romance  in  due  form, — a  romance  of 
war,  and  love,  and  fun,  and  sentiment,  and  intrigue,  and 
escape,  and  rebellion.  I  have  but  the  dozen  first  num- 
bers, and  the  thirteenth  of  the  series  is  to  complete  the 
tale;  but  the  question  is,  how  on  earth  is  it  to  be  fin- 
ished? It  is  true  the  wicked  rival  has  been  done  for — 
that  circumstances  look  prosperously  enough  for  the 
hero — that  he  has  saved  the  heroine  from  a  proper  num- 
ber of  dangers,  and  made  himself  agreeable  to  her 
father;  all  this  is  very  well.  But  the  hero's  name  is 
Corhery.  Bon  Dieu!  can  the  lovely  Ellen  Lynch  of  Gal- 
way,  the  admired  of  a  Brady,  a  Bodkin,  a  Marshal  Saxe, 
the  affianced  of  a  Kirwan  (name  equally  illustrious,  as 
Hardeman's  "Galway"  relates)— can  Ellen  Lynch 
marry  a  fellow  by  the  name  of  Corkery?  I  won't  believe 
it.  It  is  against  all  the  rules  of  romance.  They  must 
both  die  miserably  in  No.  XIII. ,  or  young  Ned  Corkery 
must  be  found  to  be  somebody  else's  son  than  his  father's, 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  271 

the  old  grocer  of  Galway.  But  this  matter  has  been  set- 
tled long  ere  this;  and  if  Ellen  and  Edward  are  married 
and  happy  (though,  indeed,  some  people  are  married 
and  unhappy,  and  some  happy  and  unmarried,  for  the 
matter  of  that) ,  if  they  have  taken  the  matrimonial  line, 
Ellen,  I  would  lay  a  wager,  is  not  JNIrs.  CorkeryJ 

The  novel  carries  us  back  to  the  year  1745,  when  the 
respected  Mr.  Edward  Waverley  distinguished  himself 
in  the  service  of  his  late  Royal  Highness  the  Pretender, 
and  when  men,  instead  of  bandying  compliments  and 
congees  in  Belgrave  Square,  flying  thither  in  hack-cabs, 
with  white  kid  gloves  on,  and  comfortable  passports  in 
their  pockets,  turned  out  on  the  hillside  sword  in  hand, 
and  faced  Cumberland's  thundering  dragoons,  and  saw 
the  backs  of  Johnny  Cope's  grenadiers.  The  contrast  be- 
tween the  times  is  not  a  bad  one,  in  the  warriors  of  Perth 
and  Falkirk  yonder,  with  tartan  and  claymore,  and  the 
young  French  dandies,  with  oiled  beards,  and  huge  gold- 
topped  canes,  grinning  over  a  fricandeau  at  Very's !  We 
have  seen  them,  these  warriors  of  the  latter  days — we 
have  seen  Belgrave  Square — we  have  seen  the  chivalry 
of  France  (in  cabs)  collected  round  the  royal  door,  and 
battling  about  eightpenny  fares  at  the  sacred  threshold 
— we  have  seen  the  cads  shouting,  "  This  way,  my  lord! 
this  way,  Mounseer! "— we  have  seen  Gunter's  cart  driv- 
ing up  with  orgeat  and  limonade  for  the  faithful  war- 
riors of  Henri  !  He  was  there— there,  in  the  one-pair 
front,  smiling  royally  upon  them  as  they  came;  and 
there  was  eau  sucree  in  the  dining-room  if  the  stalwart 
descendants  of  Du  Guesclin  were  athirst.  O  vanitas! 
O  woeful  change  of  times!     The  play  is  played  up. 

'Private  to  the  Editor.— Please  to  add  here  in  a  short  note  the 
catastrophe  of  the  novel,  which  1  don't  know. 


272  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Who  dies  for  kings  now?  If  Henri  was  to  say  to  one  of 
those  martyrs  in  \^'hite  paletots  and  lacquered  boots, 
"  Seigneur  comte,  coupez-moi  cette  barbe,  que  vous 
paraissez  tant  cherir,"  would  the  count  do  it?  Ah!  do 
not  ask!  do  not  let  us  cut  too  deep  into  this  dubious  fi- 
delity !  let  us  have  our  opinions,  but  not  speak  them  too 
loudly.  At  any  rate,  it  was  better  for  Mr.  Lover  to 
choose  1740  for  a  romance  in  place  of  1840,  which  is  the 
sole  moral  of  the  above  sentence. 

The  book  is  written  with  ability,  and  inspires  great 
interest.  The  incidents  are  almost  too  many.  The  scene 
varies  too  often.  We  go  from  Galway  to  Hamburg — 
from  Hamburg  to  Bruges — from  Bruges,  via  London,  to 
Paris — from  Paris  to  Scotland,  and  thence  to  Ireland, 
W'ith  war's  alarms  ringing  in  the  ear  the  whole  way,  and 
are  plunged  into  sea-fights  and  land-fights,  and  ship- 
wrecks, and  chases,  and  conspiracies  without  end.  Our 
first  battle  is  no  less  than  the  battle  of  Fontenoy,  and  it 
is  described  in  a  livel}^  and  a  brilliant  manner.  Voltaire, 
out  of  that  defeat,  has  managed  to  make  such  a  compli- 
ment to  the  English  nation,  that  a  thrashing  really  be- 
comes a  pleasure,  and  Mr.  Lover  does  not  neglect  a  cer- 
tain little  opportunity: — 


ii  i 


Dillon ! '  said  Marshal  Saxe,  '  let  the  whole  Irish  brigade 
charge !  to  you  I  commend  its  conduct.  Where  Dillon's  regiment 
leads  the  rest  will  follow.  The  cavalry  has  made  no  impression 
yet ;  let  the  Irish  brigade  show  an  example ! ' 

"  '  It  shall  be  done,  Marshal ! '  said  Dillon,  touching  his  hat, 
and  turning  his  horse. 

"  '  To  victory ! '  cried  Saxe,  emphatically. 

"  '  Or  Death ! '  cried  Dillon,  solemnly,  kissing  the  cross  of  his 
sword,  and  plunging  the  rowels  in  his  horse's  side,  that  swiftly  he 
might  do  his  bidding,  and  that  the  Irish  brigade  might  first  have 
the  honour  of  changing  the  fortune  of  the  day. 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  273 

"  Galloping  along  the  front  of  their  line,  where  the  brigade 
stood  impatient  for  the  order  to  advance,  Dillon  gave  a  word  that 
made  every  man  clench  his  teeth,  firmly  plunge  his  foot  deep  in 
the  stirrup,  and  grip  his  sword  for  vengeance ;  for  the  word  that 
Dillon  gave  was  talismanic  as  others  that  have  been  memorable ; 
he  shouted,  as  he  rode  along,  '  Rememher  Limerick!  '  and  then, 
wheeling  round,  and  placing  himself  at  the  head  of  his  own  regi- 
ment, to  whom  the  honour  of  leading  was  given,  he  gave  the  word 
to  charge ;  and  down  swept  the  whole  brigade,  terrible  as  a  thun- 
derbolt, for  the  hitherto  unbroken  column  of  Cumberland  was 
crushed  under  the  fearful  charge,  the  very  earth  trembled  beneath 
that  horrible  rush  of  horse.  Dillon  was  amongst  the  first  to  fall ; 
he  received  a  mortal  wound  from  the  steady  and  well-directed  fire 
of  the  English  column,  and,  as  he  was  struck,  he  knew  his  presen- 
timent was  fulfilled ;  but  he  lived  long  enough  to  know  also  he 
completed  his  prophecy  of  a  glorious  charge ;  plunging  his  spurs 
into  his  fiery  horse,  he  jumped  into  the  forest  of  bayonets,  and, 
laying  about  him  gallantly,  he  saw  the  English  column  broken, 
and  fell,  fighting,  amidst  a  heap  of  slain.  The  day  was  won  ;  the 
column  could  no  longer  resist;  but,  with  the  indomitable  spirit 
of  Englishmen,  they  still  turned  their  faces  to  the  foe,  and  retired 
without  confusion ;  they  lost  the  field  with  honour,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  defeat,  it  was  some  satisfaction  to  know  it  was  the  bold 
islanders  of  their  own  seas  who  carried  the  victory  against  them. 
It  was  no  foreigner  before  whom  the}'  yielded.  The  thought  was 
bitter  that  they  themselves  had  disbanded  a  strength  so  mighty ; 
but  they  took  consolation  in  a  strange  land  in  the  thought  that 
it  was  only  their  own  right  arm  could  deal  a  blow  so  heavy. 
Thanks  be  to  God,  these  unnatural  days  are  past,  and  the  unholy 
laws  that  made  them  so  are  expunged.  In  little  more  than  sixty 
years  after,  and  not  fifty  miles  from  that  very  spot,  Irish  valour 
helped  to  win  victory  on  the  side  of  England ;  for,  at  Waterloo, 
Erin  gave  to  Albion,  not  only  her  fiery  columns,  but  her  uncon- 
quered  chieftain." 

That  Irish  brioade  is  the  deuce,  certainly.    When  once 
it  appears,  the  consequences  are  obvious.    No  mortal  can 


274  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

stand  against  it.    Why  does  not  some  military  Hiber- 
nian write  the  history  of  this  redoubtable  legion. 

There  is  something  touching  in  these  legends  of  the 
prowess  of  the  exile  in  his  banishment,  and  no  doubt  it 
could  be  shown  that  where  the  French  did  not  happen  to 
have  the  uppermost  in  their  contest  with  the  Saxon,  it 
was  because  their  allies  were  engaged  elsewhere,  and  not 
present  in  the  field  to  i?ag  an  llBealacl),  as  Mr.  Lover 
writes  it,  to  "  clear  the  way;  "  on  which  subject  he  writes 
a  song,  which,  he  says,  "  at  least  all  Ireland  will  heartily 
digest." 

"  Fag  an  Bealach 


(( 


Fill  the  cup,  my  brothers, 

To  pledge  a  toast. 
Which,  beyond  all  others, 

We  prize  the  most : 
As  yet  'tis  but  a  notion 

We  dare  not  name ; 
But  soon  o'er  land  or  ocean 

'Twill  fly  with  fame ! 
Then  give  the  game  before  us 

One  view  holla. 
Hip !  hurra  !  in  chorus, 
Fag  an  Bealach ! 


*'  We  our  hearts  can  fling,  boys, 

O'er  this  notion, 
As  the  sea-bird's  wing,  boys. 

Dips  the  ocean. 
'Tis  too  deep  for  words,  boys. 

The  thought  we  know — 
So,  like  the  ocean  bird,  boys, 

We  touch  and  go : 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  275 

For  dangers  deep  surrounding, 

Our  hopes  might  swallow ; 
So  through  the  tempest  bounding, 

Fag  an  Bealach ! 


« 


i( 


This  thought  with  glory  rife,  boys, 

Did  brooding  dwell, 
Till  time  did  give  it  life,  boys. 

To  break  the  shell: 
'Tis  in  our  hearts  yet  lying. 

An  unfledged  thing; 
But  soon,  an  eaglet  flying, 

'Twill  take  the  wing ! 
For  'tis  no  timeling  frail,  boys — 

No  summer  swallow — 
'Twill  live  through  winter's  gale,  boys. 

Fag  an  Bealach ! 

Lawyers  may  indict  us 

By  crooked  laws, 
Soldiers  strive  to  fright  us 

From  country's  cause ; 
But  we  will  sustain  it 

Living — dying — 
Point  of  law  or  bay'net 

Still  defying! 
Let  their  parchment  rattle— 

Drums  are  hollow. 
So  is  lawyer's  prattle — 

Fag  an  Bealach ! 


**  Better  early  graves,  boys. 
Dark  locks  gory. 
Than  bow  the  head  as  slaves,  boys, 
When  they're  hoary. 


276  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Fight  it  out  we  must,  boys, 

Hit  or  miss  it ; 
Better  bite  the  dust,  boys, 

Than  to  kiss  it ! 
For  dust  to  dust  at  last,  boys, 

Death  will  swallow — 
Hark !  the  trumpet's  blast,  boys, 

Fag  an  Bcalach ! " 

Hurra!  clear  the  course!  Here  comes  Rory  O'More 
thundering  down  with  his  big  alpeen;  his  blood  is  up, 
and  woe  to  the  Saxon  skull  that  comes  in  contact  with 
the  terrible  fellow's  oak-stick.  He  is  in  a  mortal  fury, 
that's  a  fact.  He  talks  of  dying  as  easy  as  of  suj^ping 
buttermilk;  he  rattles  out  rhymes  for  bayonet  and  car- 
touche-box as  if  they  were  his  ordinary  weapons;  he  is 
a  sea-bird,  and  then  an  eagle  breaking  his  shell,  and 
previously  a  huntsman— anything  for  his  country! 
"  Your  sowl! "  how  I  see  the  Saxons  flying  before  Rory 
and  his  wild  huntsmen,  as  the  other  foul  animals  did 
before  St.  Patrick! 

It  is  a  good  rattling  lyric,  to  be  sure.  But  is  it  well 
sung  by  you,  O  Samuel  Lover?  Are  yoUj  too,  turning 
rebel,  and  shouting  out  songs  of  hatred  against  the 
Saxon?  You,  whose  gentle  and  kindly  muse  never 
breathed  anything  but  peace  and  goodwill  as  yet:  you 
whose  name  did  seem  to  indicate  your  nature ;  the  happy 
discoverer  of  the  four-leaved  shamrock,  and  of  that 
blessed  island  "  where  not  a  tear  or  aching  heart  should 
be  found!"  Leave  the  brawling  to  the  politicians  and 
the  newspaper  ballad-mongers.  They  live  by  it.  You 
need  not.  The  lies  which  thev  tell,  and  the  foul  hatred 
wliich  tliey  excite,  and  the  fierce  lust  of  blood  which  they 
preach, — leave  to  them.     Don't  let  poets  and  men  of 


A  BOX  OF  XOVELS  277 

genius  join  in  the  brutal  chorus,  and  lead  on  starving 
savages  to  murder.  Or  do  you,  after  maturely  deliber- 
ating the  matter,  mean  to  say,  you  think  a  rebellion  a 
just,  feasible,  and  useful  thing  for  your  country — the 
only  feasible  thing,  the  inevitable  slaughter  which  it 
would  occasion,  excusable  on  account  of  the  g-ood  it 
would  do?  "  A  song,"  say  you,  ushering  this  incendiary 
lyric  into  print,  "  is  the  spawn  of  a  poet,  and,  when 
healthy,  a  thing  of  life  and  feeling  that  should  increase 
and  multiply,  and  become  food  for  the  world."  And  so, 
with  this  conviction  of  the  greatness  of  your  calling,  and 
this  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  every  line  you  write 
is  food  for  mankind  to  profit  by,  you  sit  down  calmly 
and  laboriously  in  your  study  in  London,  and  string  to- 
gether rhymes  for  Faug  a  Bolla,  and  reasons  for  trea- 
son! "All  Ireland,"  forsooth,  is  "heartily  to  digest" 
the  song!  A  pretty  morsel,  truly,  for  all  Ireland — 
a  comfortable  dinner!  Blood,  arsenic,  blue-vitriol, 
Prussic  acid,  to  wash  down  pikes,  cannon-balls,  and  red- 
hot  shot ! 

INIurder  is  the  meaning  of  this  song,  or  what  is  it? 
Let  a  Saxon  beseech  you  to  hold  your  hand  before  you 
begin  this  terrible  sport.  Can  you  say,  on  your  honour 
and  conscience,  and  after  living  in  England,  that  you 
ever  met  an  Englishman  with  a  heart  in  his  Saxony- 
cloth  surtout  that  was  not  touched  by  the  wrongs  and 
miseries  of  your  country?  How  are  these  frantic  de- 
nunciations of  defiance  and  hatred,  these  boasts  of 
strength  and  hints  of  murder,  received  in  England?  Do 
the  English  answer  you  with  a  hundredth  part  of  the 
ferocity  with  which  you  appeal  to  them  ?  Do  they  fling 
back  hatred  for  your  hatred?  Do  they  not  forget  your 
anger  in  regard  for  your  misery,  and  receive  your  mad 


278  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

curses  and  outcries  with  an  almost  curious  pitying  for- 
bearance? Now,  at  least,  the  wrong  is  not  on  our  side, 
whatever  in  former  days  it  may  have  been.  And  I  think 
a  poet  shames  his  great  calling,  and  has  no  more  right 
to  preach  this  wicked,  foolish,  worn-out,  unchristian  doc- 
trine from  his  altar  than  a  priest  from  his  pulpit.  No 
good  ever  came  of  it.  This  will  never  "  be  food  for  the 
world,"  be  sure  of  that.  Loving,  honest  men  and 
women  were  never  made  to  live  upon  such  accursed 
meat.  Poets  least  of  all  should  recommend  it;  for  are 
they  not  priests,  too,  in  their  way?  do  they  not  occupy  a 
happy  neutral  ground,  apart  from  the  quarrels  and 
hatred  of  the  world, — a  ground  to  which  they  should 
make  all  welcome,  and  where  there  should  only  be 
kindness  and  peace?  .  .  .  I  see  Rory  O'More  re- 
lents. He  drops  his  terrific  club  of  battle ;  he  will  spare 
the  Sassenach  this  time,  and  leave  him  whole  bones. 
Betty,  take  down  the  gentleman's  stick,  and  make  a 
fire  with  it  in  the  kitchen,  and  we'll  have  a  roaring  pot 
of  twankay. 

While  discussing  the  feast,  in  perfect  good-humour 
and  benevolence,  let  us  say  that  the  novel  of  "  Treasure 
Trove  "  is  exceedingly  pleasant  and  lively.  It  has  not 
been  written  without  care,  and  a  great  deal  of  historical 
reading.  Bating  the  abominable  Faug  a  Bolla,  it  con- 
tains a  number  of  pleasant,  kindly,  and  sweet  lyrics, 
such  as  the  author  has  the  secret  of  inventing,  and  of 
singing,  and  of  setting  to  the  most  beautiful  music ;  and 
is  illustrated  by  a  number  of  delicate  and  graceful  etch- 
ings, far  better  than  any  before  designed  by  the  author. 

Let  us  give  another  of  his  songs,  which,  albeit  of  the 
military  sort,  has  the  real,  natural,  Lover-like  feeling 
about  it: — 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  279 

"  The  Soldier 

it  "PwAS  glorions  day,  worth  a  warrior's  telling, 

Two  kings  had  fought,  and  the  fight  was  done, 
When  midst  the  shout  of  victory  swelling, 

A  soldier  fell  on  the  field  he  won. 
He  thought  of  kings  and  of  royal  quarrels, 

And  thought  of  glory  without  a  smile; 
For  what  had  he  to  do  with  laurels  ? 

He  was  only  one  of  the  rank  and  file. 
But  he  pulled  out  his  little  cruiskeen. 
And  drank  to  his  pretty  colleen: 

'  Oh !  darling ! '  says  he,  '  when  I  die 

You  won't  be  a  widow — for  why? — 

Ah !  you  never  would  have  me,  vourneen* 

"  A  raven  tress  from  his  bosom  taking, 

That  now  was  stained  with  his  life-stream  shed ; 
A  fervent  prayer  o'er  that  ringlet  making. 

He  blessings  sought  on  the  loved  one's  head. 
And  visions  fair  of  his  native  mountains 

Arose,  enchanting  his  fading  sight ; 
Their  emerald  valleys  and  crystal  fountains 

Were  never  shining  more  green  and  bright ; 
And  grasping  his  little  cruiskeen. 
He  pledged  the  dear  island  of  green; — 

*  Though  far  from  thy  valleys  I  die, 

Dearest  isle,  to  my  heart  thou  art  nigh, 
As  though  absent  I  never  had  been.' 

**  A  tear  now  fell  —  for  as  life  was  sinking, 
The  pride  that  guarded  his  manly  eye 
Was  weaker  grown,  and  his  last  fond  thinking 

Brought  heaven  and  home,  and  his  true  love  nigh. 


280  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

But,  with  the  fire  of  his  gallant  nation, 

He  scorn'd  surrender  without  a  blow ! 
He  made  with  death  capitulation, 

And  with  warlike  honours  he  still  would  go ; 
For,  draining  his  little  cruiskeen. 
He  drank  to  his  cruel  colleen. 

To  the  emerald  land  of  his  birth — 

And  lifeless  he  sank  to  the  earth, 
Brave  a  soldier  as  ever  was  seen  !  " 

Here  is  the  commencement  of  another  lyric: — 

"  O  remember  this  life  is  but  dark  and  brief ; 

There  are  sorrows,  and  tears,  and  despair  for  all, 
And  hope  and  joy  are  as  leaves  that  fall. 

Then  pluck  the  beauteous  and  fragrant  leaf 

Before  the  autumn  of  pain  and  grief ! 

*'  There  are  hopes  and  smiles  with  their  starry  rays, — 

O  press  them  tenderly  to  thy  heart ! 

They  will  not  return  when  they  once  depart ! 
Rejoice  in  the  radiant  and  joyous  days 
Though  the  light,  though  the  glee  but  a  moment  stays !  " 

But  these  pretty,  wild,  fantastical  lines  are  not  from 
"  Treasure  Trove."  They  come  from  another  volume 
bound  in  yellow;  another  monthly  tale,  from  another 
bard  who  "  lisps  in  numbers,"  and  has  produced  a  story 
called  the  "  Miser's  Son."  ' 

The  "Miser's  Son"  (no  relation  to  the  "Miser's 
Daughter  ")  is  evidently  the  work  of  a  very  young  hand. 
It,  too,  is  a  stirring  story  of  love  and  war ;  and  the  Pre- 
tender is  once  more  in  the  field  of  fiction.  The  writer 
aims,  too,  at  sentiment  and  thoughtfulness,  and  writes 

'  The  Miser's  Son:  a  Tale.    London:  Thompson,  James 
Street,  Graj''s  Inn  Lane. 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  281 

sometimes  wisely,  sometimes  poetically,  and  often  (must 
it  be  said?)  bombastically  and  absurdly.  But  it  is  good 
to  find  a  writer  nowadays  (whether  it  be  profitable  for 
himself  is  another  question)  who  takes  the  trouble  to 
think  at  all.  Reflection  is  not  the  ordinary  quality  of 
novels,  whereof  it  seems  to  be  the  writer's  maxim  to  give 
the  reader  and  himself  no  trouble  of  thinking  at  all,  but 
rather  to  lull  the  mind  into  a  genial  doze  and  forgetful- 
ness.  For  this  wholesome  and  complete  vacuity  I  would 
recommend — ^ 

And  now  we  come  to  the  "Burgomaster  of  Berlin,"^ 
from  the  German  of  Willebald  Alexis,  which  has  been 
admirably  translated  by  W.  A.  G.  It  is  a  somewhat 
hard  matter  to  peruse  these  three  great  volumes;  above 
all,  the  commencement  is  difficult.  The  type  is  close; 
the  German  names  very  outlandish  and  hard  to  pro- 
nounce ;  the  action  of  the  novel  rather  confused  and  dila- 
tory. But  as  soon  as  the  reader  grows  accustomed  to  the 
names  and  the  style,  he  will  find  much  to  interest  him  in 
the  volumes,  and  a  most  curious  and  careful  picture  of 
German  life  in  the  fifteenth  century  exhibited  to  him. 
German  burghers,  with  their  quarrels  and  carouses ;  Ger- 
man princes,  for  whom  the  author  has  a  very  German 
respect;  German  junkers  and  knights  gallantly  robbing 
on  the  highway.  The  whole  of  that  strange,  wild,  for- 
gotten German  life  of  the  middle  ages  is  here  resusci- 
tated for  him  with  true  German  industry,  and  no  small 
share  of  humour.  There  are  proverbs  enough  in  the 
book  to  stock  a  dozen  High-Dutch  Sanchos  with  wis- 
dom; and  you  feel,  after  reading  through  the  volumes, 

*  Here  our  correspondent's  manuscript  is  quite  illep:ible. 

'  The  Burgomaster  of  Berlin.     From  tlie  German  of  Willebald 

Alexis.     3  vols.     London:  Saunders  &  Otley. 


282  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

glad  to  have  perused  them,  and  not  a  httle  glad  that  the 
work  is  done.  It  is  like  a  heavy  book  of  travels;  but  it 
carries  the  reader  into  quite  a  new  country,  and  familiar- 
ises him  with  new  images,  personages,  ideas. 

And  now  there  is  but  one  book  left  in  the  box,  the 
smallest  one,  but  oh !  how  much  the  best  of  all.  It  is  the 
work  of  the  master  of  all  the  English  humourists  now 
alive;  the  young  man  who  came  and  took  his  place 
calmly  at  the  head  of  the  whole  tribe,  and  who  has  kept 
it.  Think  of  all  we  owe  Mr.  Dickens  since  those  half- 
dozen  years,  the  store  of  happy  hours  that  he  has  made 
us  pass,  the  kindly  and  pleasant  companions  whom  he 
has  introduced  to  us;  the  harmless  laughter,  the  gener- 
ous wit,  the  frank,  manly,  human  love  which  he  has 
taught  us  to  feel!  Every  month  of  those  years  has 
brought  us  some  kind  token  from  this  delightful  genius. 
His  books  may  have  lost  in  art,  perhaps,  but  could  we 
afford  to  wait?  Since  the  days  when  the  Spectator  was 
produced  by  a  man  of  kindred  mind  and  temper,  what 
books  have  appeared  that  have  taken  so  aiFectionate  a 
hold  of  the  English  public  as  these?  They  have  made 
millions  of  rich  and  poor  happy ;  they  might  have  been 
locked  up  for  nine  years,  doubtless,  and  pruned  here  and 
there  and  improved  (which  I  doubt),  but  where  would 
have  been  the  reader's  benefit  all  this  time,  while  the 
author  was  elaborating  his  performance?  Would  the 
communion  between  the  writer  and  the  public  have  been 
what  it  is  now — something  continual,  confidential,  some- 
thing like  personal  affection?  I  do  not  know  whether 
these  stories  are  written  for  future  ages:  many  sage 
critics  doubt  on  this  head.  There  are  always  such  con- 
jurers to  tell  literary  fortunes;  and,  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge, Boz,  according  to  them,  has  been  sinking  regularly 


A  BOX  OF  XOVELS  283 

these  six  years.  I  doubt  about  that  mysterious  writing 
for  futurity  which  certain  big-wigs  prescribe.  Snarl 
has  a  chance,  certainly.  His  works,  which  have  not  been 
read  in  this  age,  may  be  read  in  future;  but  the  receipt 
for  that  sort  of  writing  has  never  as  yet  been  clearly  as- 
certained. Shakspeare  did  not  write  for  futurity;  he 
WTote  his  plays  for  the  same  purpose  which  inspires  the 
pen  of  Alfred  Bunn,  Esquire,  viz.  to  fill  his  Theatre 
Royal.  And  yet  we  read  Shakspeare  now.  Le  Sage 
and  Fielding  wrote  for  their  public;  and  though  the 
great  Doctor  Johnson  put  his  peevish  protest  against  the 
fame  of  the  latter,  and  voted  him  "  a  dull  dog,  sir,  —  a  low 
fellow,"  3'et  somehow  Harry  Fielding  has  survived  in 
spite  of  the  critic,  and  Parson  Adams  is  at  this  minute 
as  real  a  character,  as  much  loved  by  us  as  the  old  Doctor 
himself.  What  a  noble  divine  power  this  of  genius  is, 
which,  passing  from  the  poet  into  his  reader's  soul,  min- 
gles with  it,  and  there  engenders,  as  it  were,  real  crea- 
tures, which  is  as  strong  as  history,  which  creates  beings 
that  take  their  place  by  nature's  own.  All  that  w^e  know 
of  Don  Quixote  or  Louis  XIV.  we  got  to  know  in  the 
same  w^ay— out  of  a  book.  I  declare  I  love  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  quite  as  much  as  Izaak  Walton,  and  have 
just  as  clear  a  consciousness  of  the  looks,  voice,  habit, 
and  manner  of  being  of  the  one  as  of  the  other. 

And  so  with  regard  to  this  question  of  futurity;  if 
any  benevolent  being  of  the  present  age  is  imbued  with 
a  yearning  desire  to  know  what  his  great-great-grand- 
child will  think  of  this  or  that  author— of  Mr.  Dickens 
especially,  whose  claims  to  fame  have  raised  the  question 
—the  only  way  to  settle  it  is  by  the  ordinary  historic 
method.  Did  not  your  great-great-grandfather  love 
and  delight  in  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza?     Have 


284  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

they  lost  their  vitahty  by  their  age?  Don't  they  move 
laughter  and  awaken  affection  now  as  three  hundred 
years  ago?  And  so  with  Don  Pickwick  and  Sancho 
AVeller,  if  their  gentle  humours,  and  kindly  wit,  and 
hearty  benevolent  natures,  touch  us  and  convince  us,  as 
it  were,  now,  why  should  they  not  exist  for  our  children 
as  well  as  for  us,  and  make  the  twenty-fifth  century 
happy,  as  they  have  the  nineteenth?  Let  Snarl  console 
himself,  then,  as  to  the  future. 

As  for  the  "  Christmas  Carol,"  ^  or  any  other  book  of 
a  like  nature  which  the  public  takes  upon  itself  to  criti- 
cise, the  individual  critic  had  quite  best  hold  his  peace. 
One  remembers  what  Bonaparte  replied  to  some  Aus- 
trian critics,  of  much  correctness  and  acumen,  who 
doubted  about  acknowledging  the  French  Republic.  I 
do  not  mean  that  the  "  Christmas  Carol "  is  quite  as  bril- 
liant or  self-evident  as  the  sun  at  noonday;  but  it  is  so 
spread  over  England  by  this  time,  that  no  sceptic,  no 
Fraser's  Magazine, — no,  not  even  the  godlike  and  an- 
cient Quarterly  itself  (venerable,  Saturnian,  big-wigged 
dynasty!)  could  review  it  down.  "Unhappy  people! 
deluded  race! "  one  hears  the  cauliflowered  god  exclaim, 
mournfully  shaking  the  powder  out  of  his  ambrosial 
curls,  "What  strange  new  folly  is  this?  What  new 
deity  do  ye  worship  ?  Know  ye  what  ye  do  ?  Know  ye 
that  your  new  idol  hath  little  Latin  and  less  Greek? 
Know  ye  that  he  has  never  tasted  the  birch  of  Eton,  nor 
trodden  the  flags  of  Carfax,  nor  paced  the  academic  flats 
of  Trumpington?  Know  ye  that  in  mathematics,  or 
logics,  this  wretched  ignoramus  is  not  fit  to  hold  a  candle 
to  a  wooden  spoon?     See  ye  not  how,  from  describing 

^A  Christmas  Carol  in  Prose;  he\n(j  a  Qhost  Story  of  Christmas.  By 
Chnrles  Dickens.  With  Illustrations  by  John  Leech.  London:  Ch.-vpman  & 
Hall.     1843. 


A  BOX  OF  NOVELS  285 

low  humours,  he  now,  forsooth,  will  attempt  the  sublime  ? 
Discern  ye  not  his  faults  of  taste,  his  deplorable  propen- 
sity to  write  blank  verse?  Come  back  to  your  ancient, 
venerable,  and  natural  instructors.  Leave  this  new,  low, 
and  intoxicating  draught  at  which  ye  rush,  and  let  us 
lead  you  back  to  the  old  wells  of  classic  lore.  Come  and 
repose  with  us  there.  We  are  your  gods ;  we  are  the  an- 
cient oracles,  and  no  mistake.  Come  listen  to  us  once 
more,  and  we  will  sing  to  you  the  mystic  numbers  of  As 
in  i^resenti  under  the  arches  of  the  Pons  Asinorum." 
But  the  children  of  the  present  generation  hear  not ;  for 
they  reply,  "  Rush  to  the  Strand!  and  jDurchase  five  thou- 
sand more  copies  of  the  '  Christmas  Carol.'  " 

In  fact,  one  might  as  well  detail  the  plot  of  the 
"Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  or  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  as 
recapitulate  here  the  adventures  of  Scrooge  the  miser, 
and  his  Christmas  conversion.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  al- 
legory is  a  very  complete  one,  and  protest,  with  the  class- 
ics, against  the  use  of  blank  verse  in  prose ;  but  here  all 
objections  stop.  Who  can  listen  to  objections  regarding 
such  a  book  as  this?  It  seems  to  me  a  national  benefit, 
and  to  every  man  or  woman  who  reads  it  a  personal  kind- 
ness. The  last  two  people  I  heard  speak  of  it  were 
women ;  neither  knew  the  other,  or  the  author,  and  both 
said,  by  wa}^  of  criticism,  "  God  bless  him! "  A  Scotch 
philosopher,  who  nationally  does  not  keep  Christmas 
Day,  on  reading  the  book,  sent  out  for  a  turkey,  and 
asked  two  friends  to  dine— this  is  a  fact!  Man}'-  men 
were  known  to  sit  down  after  perusing  it,  and  write  off 
letters  to  their  friends,  not  about  business,  but  out  of 
their  fulness  of  heart,  and  to  wish  old  acquaintances  a 
happy  Christmas.  Had  the  book  appeared  a  fortnight 
earlier,  all  the  prize  cattle  would  have  been  gobbled  up 


286  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

in  pure  love  and  friendship,  Epping  denuded  of  sau- 
sages, and  not  a  turkey  left  in  Norfolk.  His  Royal 
Highness's  fat  stock  would  have  fetched  unheard-of 
prices,  and  Alderman  Bannister  would  have  been  tired 
of  slaying.  But  there  is  a  Christmas  for  1844,  too;  the 
book  will  be  as  early  then  as  now,  and  so  let  speculators 
look  out. 

As  for  Tiny  Tim,  there  is  a  certain  passage  in  the 
book  regarding  that  young  gentleman,  about  which  a 
man  should  hardly  venture  to  speak  in  print  or  in  public, 
any  more  than  he  would  of  any  other  affections  of  his 
private  heart.  There  is  not  a  reader  in  England  but 
that  little  creature  will  be  a  bond  of  union  between  the 
author  and  him ;  and  he  will  say  of  Charles  Dickens,  as 
the  woman  just  now,  "  God  bless  him!  "  What  a  feel- 
ing is  this  for  a  writer  to  be  able  to  inspire,  and  what  a 
reward  to  reap! 

(Fraser's  Magazine,  February  1844.) 


A  NEW  SPIRIT  OF  THE  AGE/ 

THERE  is  an  easy  candour  about  ]Mr.  Home  which 
ought  to  encourage  all  persons  to  deal  with  him 
with  similar  sincerity.  He  appears  to  us  to  be  generous, 
honest,  in  the  main  good-humoured  (for  in  the  only  in- 
stance in  which  his  spleen  is  shown  in  the  two  volumes 
of  the  "  New  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  it  is  pardonable,  on  ac- 
count of  a  sort  of  clumsy  sincerity),  and  he  admires 
rightly,  and  not  mean  persons  nor  qualities.  But  hav- 
ing awarded  the  "  New  Spirit  of  the  Age  "  praise  so  far, 
the  critic  finds  himself  at  a  loss  for  further  subjects  of 
commendation,  nay,  may  feel  himself  called  upon  to  ele- 
vate his  voice  in  tones  akin  to  reproof.  For  it  is  not  only 
necessary  that  a  man  should  be  a  perfectly  honest  and 
well-meaning  individual,  but  that  he  should  have  some- 
thing novel,  or  striking,  or  witty,  or  profound,  to  make 
his  works  agreeable  or  useful  to  the  world.  Thus  to  say 
that  "  Shakspeare  is  a  great  poet,"  that  "hot  roast  beef 
is  an  excellent  food  for  man,  and  may  be  advantageously 
eaten  cold  the  next  day,"  that  "  two  multiplied  by  three 
equals  six,"  that  "  her  ^Majesty  Queen  Anne  has  ceased 
to  exist,"  is  to  advance  what  is  perfectly  just  and  reason- 
able; but  other  thinkers  have  attained  the  same  know- 
ledge of  facts  and  history,  and,  coinciding  perfectly  Mdth 
every  one  of  the  propositions,  may  not  care  to  have  them 

^A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age.     Edited  by  R.  H.  Home. 
London:  Smith  &  Elder. 

287 


288  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

discussed  in  print.  A  number  of  such  undeniable  veri- 
ties are  gravely  discussed  in  the  two  portly  volumes  en- 
titled the  "  New  Spirit  of  the  Age."  Why  the  "  New 
Spirit "  ?  Is  the  work  offered  as  a  successor  to  Hazlitt's 
book,  which  bore  (without  the  epithet)  the  same  title? 
The  author  of  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Age  "  was  one  of  the 
keenest  and  brightest  critics  that  ever  lived.  With  par- 
tialities and  prejudices  innumerable,  he  had  a  wit  so  keen, 
a  sensibility  so  exquisite,  an  appreciation  of  humour,  or 
pathos,  or  even  of  the  greatest  art,  so  lively,  quick,  and 
cultivated,  that  it  was  always  good  to  know  what  were 
the  impressions  made  by  books,  or  men,  or  pictures  on 
such  a  mind;  and  that,  as  there  were  not  probably  a 
dozen  men  in  England  with  powers  so  varied  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  might  be  rejoiced  to  listen  to  the  opinions 
of  this  accomplished  critic.  He  was  of  so  different  a 
caste  to  the  people  who  gave  authority  in  his  day— the 
pompous  big-wigs  and  schoolmen,  who  never  could  par- 
don him  his  familiarit}^  of  manner,  so  unlike  their  own — 
his  popular,  too  popular,  habits  and  sympathies,  so  much 
beneath  their  dignity — his  loose  disorderly  education, 
gathered  here  and  there  at  bookstalls  or  picture  galleries, 
where  he  laboured  a  penniless  student,  in  lonely  journeys 
over  Europe,  tramped  on  foot  (and  not  made  according 
to  the  fashion  of  the  regular  critics  of  the  day,  by  the 
side  of  a  young  nobleman  in  a  postchaise ) ,  in  every 
school  of  knowledge,  from  Saint  Peter's  at  Rome  to 
Saint  Giles's  in  London.  In  all  his  modes  of  life  and 
thought  he  was  so  different  from  the  established  authori- 
ties, with  their  degrees  and  white  neckcloths,  that  they 
hooted  the  man  down  witli  all  the  power  of  their  lungs, 
and  disdained  to  hear  truth  that  came  from  such  a  ragged 
philosopher. 


A  NEW  SPIRIT  OF  THE  AGE        289 

We  do  not  believe  that  Mr.  Home  has  inherited  any 
portion  of  the  stained  travel- worn  old  mantle  which  Haz- 
litt  left  behind  him.  He  is  enveloped  in  a  good  stout 
suit  of  undeniable  Bow-bell  cut,  rather  more  splendid  in 
the  way  of  decoration  than  is  usual  out  of  the  district; 
but  it  is  the  wear  of  an  honest,  portly,  good-humoured 
man.  Under  the  fine  waistcoat  there  beats  a  kindly 
heart,  and  in  the  pocket  there  is  a  hand  that  has  a  warm 
grasp  for  a  friend,  and  a  welcome  twopence  for  the  poor. 

To  drop  this  tailor's  metaphor  (which  will  not  be  quar- 
relled with  by  those  who  remember  that  INIr.  Carlyle  has 
written  a  volume  upon  it ) ,  we  will  briefly  say,  that  be- 
yond the  qualifications  of  justice  and  good-humour,  we 
cannot  see  that  IMr.  Home  has  any  right  to  assume  the 
critical  office.  In  the  old  "  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  you  can- 
not read  a  page  that  does  not  contain  something  start- 
ling, brilliant — some  strange  paradox,  or  some  bright 
dazzling  truth.  Be  the  opinion  right  or  wrong,  the 
reader's  mind  is  always  set  a-thinking — amazed,  if  not 
by  the  novelty  or  justness  of  the  thoughts,  by  their  nov- 
elty and  daring.  There  are  no  such  rays  started  from 
the  lantern  of  Home.  There  are  words — such  a  cornu- 
copia of  them  as  the  world  has  few  examples  of ;  but  the 
thoughts  are  scarce  in  the  midst  of  this  plentifulness, 
the  opinions  for  the  most  part  perfectly  irreproachable, 
and  the  ennui  caused  by  their  utterance  profound. 

The  "  Spirit  of  the  Age  "  gives  us  pictures  of  a  con- 
siderable number  of  the  foremost  literary  characters  of 
the  day.  It  is  to  be  followed,  should  the  design  of  the 
projectors  be  carried  out,  "  by  the  political  spirit  of  the 
age,  the  scientific  spirit  of  the  age,  the  artistical  spirit 
of  the  age,  and  the  historical,  biographical,  and  critical 
spirit  of  the  age,"  nay,  an  infantile  spirit  of  the  age  is 


290  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

also  hinted  at  as  a  dreadful  possibility.  The  matter  is 
serious,  as  will  be  seen.  Only  give  Mr.  Home  encour- 
agement to  the  task,  and  he  will  go  and  do  it.  He  never 
doubts  about  anything.-  He  would  write  the  dancing 
spirit  of  the  age,  or  the  haberdashing  spirit  of  the  age, 
with  as  little  hesitation,  and  give  you  a  dissertation  upon 
bombazines,  or  a  disquisition  on  the  true  principles  of  the 
fandango.  In  the  interest  of  the  nation,  people  ought 
to  speak,  and  beg  him  to  be  quiet.  Now  is  the  time  to 
entreat  him  to  hold  his  hand,  otherwise  all  ranks  and 
classes  in  the  empire,  from  Doctor  Wiseman  to  Fanny 
Elssler,  may  find  themselves  caught,  their  bodies  and 
souls  turned  inside  out,  so  to  speak,  by  this  frightful  ob- 
server, and  consigned  to  posterity  in  red  calico.  For  the 
sake  of  the  public,  we  say,  stop;  we  go  down  on  our 
knees,  like  Lord  Brougham,  and  say  so. 

Mr.  Home  has  received  assistance  in  his  task  from 
"several  eminent  individuals,"  but  their  names  are  not; 
and  as  the  editor  says,  with  a  becoming  simplicity,  that 
he  deliberated  with  himself  "  a  good  half-hour "  as  to 
"  whether  he  should  try  to  please  everybody,"  and  de- 
termined, after  the  conclusion  of  that  tremendous  cogi- 
tation, to  try  and  please  only  one,  viz.  himself,  he  stands 
the  sponsor  of  the  eminent  individuals  who  remain  in 
the  shade,  and  we  trust  heartily  that  his  satisfaction  is 
complete. 

From  the  tone  of  the  volumes  it  would  seem  so.  There 
is  not  the  least  pride  about  the  author,  who  only  delivers 
his  opinions  for  what  they  will  fetch,  saying  to  the  pub- 
lic, "  Take  your  change  out  of  that,  I  believe  it  to  be  pure 
gold;  "  nor  will  he  be  angry,  he  says,  if  any  sceptic  should 
doubt  the  authenticity  of  the  bullion.  This  calm  faith  is 
a  quality  possessed  only  by  the  very  highest  souls. 


A   NEW    SPIRIT    OF    THE    AGE       291 

The  calm  genius  glances  over  the  entire  field  of  Eng- 
lish literature;  from  Doctor  Pusey  to  Punch  nothing  es- 
capes the  searching  inevitable  inquiry.  He  weighs  all 
claims  in  the  balance  of  his  intelligence,  and  metes  to 
each  his  due.  Hazlitt  used  sometimes  to  be  angry; 
Home  never  is.  Twice  in  the  course  of  his  lectures  he 
lays  "  an  iron  hand,"  as  he  calls  it  (perhaps  leaden  would 
have  been  the  better  epithet;  but  ^Ir.  Home  is,  as  we 
have  said,  a  judge  of  his  own  metal),  upon  unlucky 
offenders ;  but  it  is  in  the  discharge  of  his  moral  duties, 
and  his  pleasure,  clearly,  is  to  preach  rather  than  to  pun- 
ish. Indeed,  whatever  may  be  thought  with  regard  to 
the  quality  of  the  doctrine,  all  must  agree  that  the 
preacher  is  a  kindly  soul,  and  would  hurt  no  man  alive. 

We  cannot  invite  the  reader  to  discuss  all  the  opinions 
contained  in  the  "  Spirit,"  but  we  may  glance  at  a  couple 
of  the  most  elaborate  (though  not  the  best)  notices  to  be 
found  in  the  volume,  the  first  of  which  thus  opens  with 
the  author's  opinion  upon— what  shall  we  say?— upon 
things  in  general:  — 

"  If  an  extensive  experience  and  knowledge  of  the  worid  be 
certain  in  most  cases  to  render  a  man  suspicious,  full  of  doubts 
and  incredulities,  equally  certain  is  it  that  with  other  men  such 
experience  and  such  knowledge  exercise  this  influence  at  rare  in- 
tervals only,  or  in  a  far  less  degree;  while  in  some  respects  the 
influence  acts  in  a  directly  opposite  way,  and  the  extraordinary 
things  they  have  seen  or  suff'ered  cause  them  to  be  very  credulous 
and  of  open-armed  faith  to  embrace  strange  novelties.  They  are 
not  startled  at  the  sound  of  fresh  wonders  in  the  moral  or  physi- 
cal world — they  laugh  at  no  feasible  theory,  and  can  see  truth 
through  the  refractions  of  paradox  and  contradictory  extremes. 
They  know  that  there  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  on  the  earth 
than  in  '  your  philosoph}'.'    They  observe  the  fables  and  the  vis- 


292  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

ions  of  one  age  become  the  facts  and  practices  of  a  succeeding 
age — perhaps  even  of  a  few  years  after  their  first  announcement, 
and  before  the  world  has  done  laughing :  they  are  slow  to  declare 
any  character  of  action  to  be  unnatural,  having  so  often  wit- 
nessed some  of  the  extreme  lights  and  shadows  which  flit  upon 
the  outskirts  of  nature's  capacious  circle,  and  have  perhaps  them- 
selves been  made  to  feel  the  bitter  reality  of  various  classes  of 
anomaly  previously  unaccountable,  if  not  incredible.  They  have 
discovered  that  in  matters  of  practical  conduct  a  greater  blunder 
cannot  be  made  than  to  '  judge  others  by  yourself,'  or  what  you 
think,  feel,  and  fancy  of  yourself.  But  having  found  out  that 
the  world  is  not  '  all  alike,'  though  like  enough  for  the  charities 
of  real  life,  they  identify  themselves  with  other  individualities, 
then  search  within  for  every  actuaj  and  imaginary  resemblance 
to  the  great  majority  of  their  fellow-creatures,  which  may  give 
them  a  more  intimate  knowledge  of  aggregate  nature,  and  thus 
enlarge  the  bounds  of  unexclusive  sympathy. 

"  To  men  of  this  genial  habit  and  maturity  of  mind,  if  also 
they  have  an  observing  eye  for  externals,  there  is  usually  a  very 
tardy  admission  of  the  alleged  madness  of  a  picture  of  scenery, 
or  the  supposed  grossness  of  a  caricature  of  the  human  counte- 
nance. The  traveller  and  the  voyager,  who  has,  moreover,  an  eye 
for  art,  has  often  seen  enough  to  convince  him  that  the  genius  of 
Turner  and  Martin  has  its  foundation  not  only  in  elemental  but 
in  actual  truth;  nor  could  such  an  observer  go  into  any  large 
concourse  of  people  (especially  the  poorer  classes,  where  the  un- 
suppressed  character  has  been  allowed  to  rise  completely  to  the 
surface)  without  seeing  several  faces  which,  by  the  addition  of 
the  vices  of  social  man,  might  cause  many  a  dumb  animal  to  feel 
indignant  at  the  undoubtedly  deterioriated  resemblance.  The 
curse  of  evil  circumstances  acting  upon  the  '  third  and  fourth 
generation,'  when  added  to  the  '  sins  of  the  fathers,'  can  and  does 
turn  the  lost  face  of  humanity  into  something  worse  than  brutish. 
As  with  the  face,  so  it  is  with  the  character  of  mankind ;  nothing 
can  be  too  lofty,  too  noble,  too  lovely  to  be  natural ;  nor  can  any- 
thing be  too  vicious,  too  brutalised,  too  mean,  or  too  ridiculous. 


A   NEW    SPIRIT    OF    THE    AGE      293 

It  is  observable,  however,  that  there  are  many  degrees  and  fine 
shades  in  these  frequent  degradations  of  man  to  the  mere  animal. 
Occasionally  they  are  no  degradation,  but  rather  an  advantage, 
as  a  falcon  eye,  or  a  lion  brow,  will  strikingly  attest.  But  more 
generally  the  effect  is  either  gravely  humorous  or  grotesquely 
comic ;  and  in  these  cases  the  dumb  original  is  not  complimented. 
For  you  may  see  a  man  with  a  bull's  forehead  or  neck  and  a  mean 
grovelling  countenance  (while  that  of  the  bull  is  physically  grand 
and  high-purposed),  and  the  dog,  the  sheep,  the  bird,  and  the 
ape,  in  all  their  varieties,  are  often  seen  with  such  admixtures  as 
are  really  no  advantage.  Several  times  in  an  individual's  life  he 
may  meet  in  the  actual  world  with  most  of  the  best  and  worst 
kind  of  faces  and  characters  of  the  world  of  fiction.  It  is  true 
that  there  are  not  to  be  found  a  whole  tribe  of  Quilps  and  Quasi- 
modos (you  would  not  zvish  it)  ;  but  once  in  the  life  of  the  stu- 
dent of  character  he  may  have  a  glimpse  of  just  such  a  creature; 
and  that,  methinks,  were  quite  familiar  proof  both  for  nature  and 
art.  Those  who  have  exclusively  portrayed  the  pure  ideal  in 
grandeur  or  beauty,  and  those  who  have  exclusively  or  chiefly 
portrayed  monstrosities  and  absurdities,  have  been  recluse  men, 
who  drew  with  an  inward  eye,  and  copied  from  their  imagina- 
tions ;  and  the  men  who  have  given  us  the  largest  amount  of 
truth  under  the  greatest  varieties  of  forms,  have  always  been  those 
who  went  abroad  into  the  world  in  all  its  ways ;  and  in  the  works 
of  such  men  will  always  be  found  those  touches  of  nature  which 
can  only  be  copied  at  first  hand,  and  the  extremes  of  which  origi- 
nalities are  never  unnaturally  exceeded.  There  are  no  carica- 
tures in  the  portraits  of  Hogarth,  nor  are  there  any  in  those  of 
Dickens.  The  most  striking  thing  in  both  is  their  apparently 
inexhaustible  variety  and  truth  of  character." 

The  above  sentence  may  be  put  down  as  thus: — Ex- 
tensive knowledge  of  the  world  makes  some  men  incred- 
ulous, some  men  less  incredulous,  some  men  exceedingly 
credulous.  These  latter,  taking  experience  and  history 
into  account,  end  by  being  astonished  at  nothing.    They 


294  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

have  remarked  "  the  lights  and  shadows  flitting  in  the  out- 
skirts of  nature's  capacious  circle  "  so  as  to  make  them- 
selves aware  of  "  the  bitter  reality  of  various  classes  of 
anomaly."  They  then  find  that  they  must  not  judge  of 
others  by  themselves ;  they  then  identify  themselves  with 
other  individualities,  and  they  then  plunge  into  a  process 
entirely  undescribable,  in  which  they  search  within  for 
an  actual  and  imaginary  resemblance  to  the  majority  of 
their  fellow-creatures,  a  more  intimate  knowledge  of 
aggregate  nature  by  which  "  they  enlarge  the  bounds  of 
their  sympathy." 

If  these  people  have  an  eye  for  externals,  they  will 
scarce  allow  that  any  picture  is  mad,  or  the  grossness  of 
any  caricature ;  and,  as  regards  the  latter,  they  will  see  in 
the  poorer  classes  such  faces,  resembling  animals,  as 
might  make  the  animals  themselves  ashamed  of  the  hu- 
man types.  In  faces,  or  souls,  there  is  nothing  too 
hideous  on  the  one  side,  or  too  pure  on  the  other.  (Then 
follow  further  illustrations  of  the  fact  by  which  apes, 
sheep,  birds,  and  high-purposed  bulls  are  made  to  be 
ashamed  of  their  likenesses  among  men.)  All  these 
points  are  to  be  observed  by  the  man  of  genius — Ho- 
garth and  Dickens  are  men  of  genius — therefore  there 
is  no  distortion  in  the  works  of  Hogarth  and  Dickens. 

What  does  all  this  mean,  letting  alone  the  big  words? 
— letting  alone  "the  lights  and  shadows  flitting  on  the 
outskirts  of  nature's  circle,"  the  process  of  searching 
within  for  the  imaginary  resemblances  with  mankind, 
the  distinction  between  "  actual  and  elementary  truth," 
the  indignation  of  the  dumb  animals,  the  physical  high- 
purpose  of  the  bull's  head?  It  means,  as  we  take  it,  that 
there  are  amazing  varieties  in  nature:  that  what  seems 
monstrous  and  absurd  is  often  natural;  that  Dickens  and 


A   NEW    SPIRIT    OF    THE    AGE       295 

Hogarth  have  observed  many  of  these  extremes,  and 
that  there  are  no  caricatures  in  their  portraits.  After  a 
wind  and  war  of  words  exploding  incoherently  over  five 
pages,  you  get  an  assertion  that  "  there  are  more  things 
in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in  our  phi- 
losophy," an  assertion  that  men  are  like  animals  in  fea- 
tures, which  is  of  similar  novelty,  and  an  assertion  that 
Dickens  and  Hogarth  do  not  caricature,  which  anybody 
may  believe  or  disbelieve  at  pleasure. 

Bating  the  confusion  of  metaphors,  this  is  all  very 
well  meaning;  but  well  meaning  is  not  enough  for  the 
"  Spirit  of  the  Age."  Men  cannot  go  on  in  this  way, 
unwrapping  little  stale  truths  from  the  midst  of  such 
enormous  envelopes  as  these.  We  have  no  time  for 
such  labour:  we  have  the  debates  to  read,  Lord 
Brougham  up  every  night,  the  league  and  anti-league 
meetings,  and  private  business  to  attend  to.  Ah,  Mr. 
Home,  why  did  you  take  Hazlitt's  name  in  vain? 

Having  brought  ISlv.  Dickens  and  Hogarth  together, 
the  "  Spirit  of  the  Age  "  proceeds  to  say  that  both  are 
moral  comic  artists,  and  that  they  are  alike;  then,  to 
show  that  the}^  are  unlike,  or,  in  other  words,  that  Ho- 
garth is  Hogarth  after  all,  and  Dickens  Dickens;  he  no- 
tices with  just  approval  the  kindly  spirit  which  animates 
both  —  the  peeps  of  love  and  sweetness  which  we  have  in 
their  darkest  scenes.  He  discovers  Mr.  Dickens's  pro- 
pensity to  animate  inanimate  objects,  and  make  nature 
bear  witness  to  the  ludicrous  or  the  tragic  moral  in  the 
author's  mind.  He  shows  also  Mr.  Dickens's  manner  of 
writing  rhythmical  prose,  and  takes  the  pains  to  set  out 
some  passages  in  blank  verse,  of  different  metres,  for 
the  reader's  benefit.  Has  not  everyone  with  a  fair  share 
of  brains  made  the  same  discoveries  long  ago?  and  Avas 


296  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

there  a  necessity  to  propound  them  now,  any  more  than 
to  declare  that  apple-pie  is  good,  and  Queen  Elizabeth 
no  more? 

The  second  volume  of  the  series  opens  with  a  fine  por- 
trait of  Mr.  Tennyson,  and  much  hearty  and  just  appro- 
bation on  the  writer's  part  of  the  merits  of  that  great 
poet.  These  just  remarks  are  prefaced  by  such  stuff  as 
this: — 

"  The  poetic  fire  is  one  simple  and  intense  element  in  human 
nature ;  it  has  its  source  in  the  divine  mysteries  of  our  existence ; 
it  develops  with  the  first  abstract  delight  of  childhood,  the  first 
youthful  aspiration  towards  something  beyond  our  mortal  reach ; 
and  eventually  becomes  the  master  passion  of  those  who  are  pos- 
sessed with  it  in  the  highest  degree,  and  the  most  ennobling  and 
refining  influence  that  can  be  exercised  upon  the  passions  of 
others.  At  times,  and  in  various  degrees,  all  are  open  to  the  in- 
fluence of  the  poetic  element.  Its  objects  are  palpable  to  the  ex- 
ternal senses,  in  proportion  as  individual  perception  and  sensi- 
bility have  been  habituated  to  contemplate  them  with  interest  and 
delight ;  and  palpable  to  the  imagination  in  proportion  as  an  in- 
dividual possesses  this  faculty,  and  has  habituated  it  to  ideal 
subjects  and  profoundly  sympathetic  reflections.  If  there  be  a 
third  condition  of  its  presence,  it  must  be  that  of  a  certain  con- 
sciousness of  dreamy  glories  in  the  soul,  with  vague  emotions, 
aimless  impulses,  and  prophetic  sensations,  which  may  be  said  to 
tremble  on  the  extreme  verge  of  the  fermenting  source  of  that 
poetic  fire,  by  which  the  life  of  humanity  is  purified  and  adorned. 
The  first  and  second  of  these  two  conditions  must  be  clear  to  all ; 
the  last  will  not  receive  so  general  an  admission,  and  perhaps  may 
not  be  so  intelligible  to  everybody  as  could  be  wished.  We  thus 
arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  the  poetic  element,  though  simple 
and  entire,  has  yet  various  forms  and  modifications  of  develop- 
ment according  to  individual  nature  and  circumstance,  and,  there- 
fore, that  its  loftiest  or  subtlest  manifestations  are  not  equally 


A   NEW    SPIRIT    OF    THE    AGE      297 

apparent  to  the  average  mass  of  human  intelhgence.  He,  then, 
who  can  give  a  form  and  expression  to  these  lofty  or  these  subtle 
manifestations,  in  a  way  that  shall  be  the  most  intelligible  to  the 
majority,  is  he  who  best  accomplishes  the  mission  of  a  poet." 

It  is  the  speech  we,  however,  before  quoted,  spoken  in 
different  words ;  for  our  lecturer,  before  entering  on  his 
subject,  seems  to  be  partial  to  j)refacing  it  by  a  general 
roar,  to  call  the  attention  of  the  audience.  But  what 
have  we  here?  "The  poetic  fire  is  one  simple  and  in- 
tense element  of  our  nature."  What  does  this  mean — 
this  simple  and  intense  element?  Suppose  he  had  begun 
by  saying  that  the  poetic  genius  was  a  subtle  and  com- 
plex essence  distilled  from  the  innumerable  conduits 
which  lead  from  the  alembic  of  the  brain.  We  should 
have  been  just  as  wise,  should  have  had  just  as  much 
notion  of  the  fluid  as  of  the  fire,  and  the  deductions 
might  have  been  continued.  Some  men  have  more  poetic 
fire,  some  less;  in  some  it  is  strong,  in  some  vague— 
which  we  take  to  be  the  meaning  of  the  big  words.  The 
assertion  which  follows  we  gladly  admit,  that  Mr. 
Tennyson  is  a  poet  of  the  highest  class,  and  one  "  whose 
writings  may  be  considered  as  peculiarly  lucid  to  all  com- 
petent understandings  that  have  cultivated  a  love  for 
poetry."  In  this  pompous  way  our  author  will  talk.  We 
do  not  here  quarrel  with  the  sentiment — which 
is,  that  the  best  judges  of  poetry  think  ]Mr.  Tennyson 
a  good  poet — but  with  the  manner  of  expressing  it, 
the  persevering  flatulence  of  words.  Mr.  Home  then 
turns  away  to  speak  of  Keats.  Like  Tennyson,  and 
yet  unlike,  and,  with  a  true  and  honest  admiration 
for  the  genius  of  both  (for,  as  we  have  said  before, 
Mr.  Home's  admirations  appear  to  us  to  be  well  placed, 
and  his  sympathies  generous  and  noble),  he  begins  to 


298  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

characterise  the  poet,  as  if  impelled  by  his  usual  affla- 
tus. He  is  tumbling  about  among  the  "essences"  and 
"elements"  forthwith.  "He  has  painted  the  inner 
and  essential  life  of  the  gods;  "  "  his  imagination  identi- 
fied itself  with  the  essence  of  things; "  "  his  influence  has 
been  spiritual  in  its  ideality;"  and,  profiting  by  his  ex- 
ample, "kindred  spirits  will  recognise  the  voice  from 
other  spheres,  into  their  own  hearts,  and  to  work  out  the 
purpose  of  their  souls."  As  for  Tennyson,  "the  art 
stands  up  in  his  poems  self-proclaimed,  and  not  any 
mere  modification  of  thought  and  language,  but  the 
operation  of  a  separate  and  definite  power  in  the  human 
faculties."  "  He  has  the  most  wonderful  command  of 
language,  without  having  recourse  to  exotic  terminolo- 
gies." Certain  of  "his  heroines  are  transcendentalisms 
of  the  senses,  examples  of  the  Homeric  sc^wXa,  or  rather 
descendants  of  the  scScoXa,  lovely  imderhodies,  which  no 
German  critic  would  hesitate  to  take  to  his  visionary 
arms."  But  we,  says  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  are  such 
a  people  for  "  beef  "  ! 

Well,  why  not?  Beef  is  better  than  this — beef  is  bet- 
ter  than  the  wind — better,  nay,  more  poetical,  than  ex- 
otic terminologies;  the  " underbody "  of  the  sirloin  is 
better  than  the  descendants  of  the  Greek  siScoXov  whom 
German  philosophers  are  in  the  habit  of  hugging. 
Above  all,  the  practisers  of  (BooXarpsia  call  their  god  by 
his  name  of  Beef.  It  would  be  just  as  easy  as  not,  to  call 
it  an  element  or  an  eon;  to  call  soup  an  essence,  or  a 
round  of  beef  a  circle  of  the  gods,  or  cabbage  a  green 
horticultural  emanation,  which  commingled  with  con- 
coct particles  of  the  animal  which  the  Egyptians  wor- 
ship, what  Brahmins  adore,  and  whose  form  once  Zeus 
assumed,  is  denominated  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  vocabu- 


A   NEW    SPIRIT    OF    THE    AGE       299 

lary,  bubble-and-squeak;  but  it  is  best  not  to  seek  after 
exotic  terminologies,  and  so  the  beef -eaters  say  bubble- 
and-squeak  at  once.  This  bull-baiting  is  ungrateful  and 
unnatural.  Let  not  the  noble  animal  die  gored  to  death, 
and  by  a  Home. 

For  a  great  deal  of  benefit  has  the  author  of  the 
"  Spirit  of  the  Age  "  had  from  the  despised  quadruped. 
He  is  "  morally  high-purposed,"  as  he  saj^s  bullocks  are 
physically.  He  is  never  ungenerous  or  unmanly;  his 
sympathies  are  honourable  and  well  placed ;  and  he  tells 
the  truth  as  far  as  he  knows  it.  So  as  he  deals  with 
others  ought  he  to  be  done  by;  and  as  in  these  volumes 
he  has  not  hesitated  to  lay  hold  of  an  amusing  poet,  and 
worry  his  harmless  phantasies  as  if  they  were  the  gravest 
and  deepest  crimes;  and  as  he  has  taken  to  himself  the 
title  formerly  adopted  by  the  most  brilliant  of  critics, 
and  as  he  has  no  business  to  be  left  in  possession  of  that 
dignity  of  spirit  of  the  age ;  and  as  he  mistakes  words  for 
meanings,  and  can  see  no  further  into  millstones  than 
other  folk,  so  let  the  critic,  imitating  his  words  to  the 
unlucky  wag  in  question,  lay  a  friendly  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  say,  yawning,  "  Friend,  a  great  deal  too 
much  of  this." 

{Morning  Chronicle,  April  2,  1844.) 


BARMECIDE   BANQUETS,  WITH   JOSEPH 
BREGION  AND  ANNE  MILLER 

GEORGE    SAVAGE    FITZ-BOODLE,    ESQUIRE,  TO    THE    REVER- 
END  LIONEL  GASTER,    FELLOW   AND   TUTOR   OF 
SAINT    BONIFACE    COLLEGE,    OXON 

Pall  Mall:  October  25,  1845. 

MY  DEAR  LIONEL,— There  is  a  comfort  to 
think,  that  however  other  works  and  masterpieces 
bearing  my  humble  name  have  been  received  by  the  pub- 
he,  namely,  with  what  I  cannot  but  think  (and  future 
ages  will,  I  have  no  doubt,  pronounce)  to  be  unmerited 
obloquy  and  inattention,  the  present  article,  at  least, 
which  I  address  to  you  through  the  public  prints,  will 
be  read  by  every  one  of  the  numerous  readers  of  this 
INIagazine.  What  a  quantity  of  writings  by  the  same 
hand  have  you,  my  dear  friend,  pored  over !  How  much 
delicate  wit,  profound  philosophy  (lurking  hid  under 
harlequin's  black  mask  and  spangled  jacket,  nay,  under 
clown's  white  lead  and  grinning  vermilion) , — how  many 
quiet  wells  of  deep  gushing  pathos,  have  you  failed  to 
remark  as  you  hurried  through  those  modest  pages,  for 
which  the  author  himself  here  makes  an  apology,  not 
that  I  quarrel  with  my  lot,  or  rebel  against  that  meanest 
of  all  martyrdoms,  indifference,  with  which  a  callous 
age  has  visited  me— not  that  I  complain  because  I  am 
not  appreciated  by  the  present  century — no,  no! — he 
who  lives  at  this  time  ought  to  know  it  better  than  to  be 

300 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS  301 

vexed  by  its  treatment  of  him— he  who  pines  because 
Smith  or  Snooks  doesn't  appreciate  him,  has  a  poor  puny 
vein  of  endurance,  and  pays  those  two  personages  too 
much  honour. 

Pardon,  dear  Lionel,  the  egotism  of  the  above  httle 
disquisition.  If  (as  undoubtedly  is  the  case)  Fitz- 
Boodle  is  a  grande  dine  inconnue,  a  genie  incompris,  you 
cannot  say  that  I  complain— I  don't  push  cries  of  distress 
like  my  friend  Sir  Lytton— if  I  am  a  martyr,  who  ever 
saw  me  out  of  temper?  I  lie  smiling  on  my  rack  or 
gridiron,  causing  every  now  and  then  an  emotion  of  pity 
in  the  bystanders  at  my  angelic  good-humour.  I  bear 
the  kicks  of  the  world  with  smiling  meekness,  as  Napo- 
leon used  to  say  Talleyrand  could;  no  one  could  tell  from 
the  jolly  and  contented  expression  of  my  face  what  se- 
vere agonies  were  felt — what  torturous  indignities  were 
inflicted  elsewhere. 

I  think  about  my  own  exceedingly  select  class  of  read- 
ers with  a  rueful  modesty,  when  I  recollect  how  much 
more  lucky  other  authors  are.  Here,  for  instance,  I  say  to 
myself,  looking  upon  the  neat,  trim,  tight,  little,  hand- 
some book,  signed  by  Joseph  Bregion  and  Anne  Miller, 
"  Here  is  a  book  whereof  the  public  will  infallibly  pur- 
chase thousands.  Maidens  and  matrons  will  read  and 
understand  it.  Smith  will  buy  it  and  present  it  to  his 
lady;  Snooks  will  fully  enter  into  the  merit  of  it,  and 
recommend  its  perusal  to  his  housekeeper.  Nor  will  it  be 
merely  enjoyed  by  these  worthy  humdrum  people,  but 
men  of  learning  and  genius  w^ill  find  subject  of  interest 
and  delectation  in  it.  I  dare  say  it  will  find  a  place  in 
bishops'  libraries,  or  on  the  bookshelves  of  men  of  science, 
or  on  the  tables  of  poets  and  painters ;  for  it  is  suited  to 
the  dullest  and  the  highest  intelligence."     And  where 


802  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

is  the  fool  or  the  man  of  genius  that  is  insensible  to  the 
charms  of  a  good  dinner?  I  myself  have  been  so  much 
amused  and  instructed  by  the  reading  of  the  "  Practical 
Cook  "  that  I  have  purchased,  out  of  my  own  pocket, 
several  copies  for  distribution  among  my  friends.  Ev- 
erybody can  understand  it  and  get  benefit  by  it.  You, 
not  the  least  among  the  number,  my  reverend  and  excel- 
lent friend ;  for  though  your  mornings  are  passed  in  the 
study  of  the  heathen  classics,  or  over  your  favourite  tomes 
of  patristic  lore — though  of  forenoons  you  astonish  lec- 
ture-rooms with  5^our  learning,  and  choose  to  awe  de- 
lighted undergraduates, — yet  I  know  that  an  hour  comes 
daily  when  the  sage  feels  that  he  is  a  man,  when  the 
reverend  expounder  of  Austin  and  Chrysostom  forsakes 
his  study  table  for  another,  which  is  spread  in  the  com- 
mon-room, whereon,  by  the  cheerful  glimmer  of  wax- 
tapers,  your  eye  rests  complacently  upon  crystal  flasks 
mantling  with  the  red  juices  of  France  and  Portugal, 
and  glittering  silver  dishes,  smoking  with  viands  pre- 
pared by  j^our  excellent  college  cook. 

Do  you  remember  the  week  I  once  passed  at  Saint 
Boniface  College,  honoured  to  be  your  guest  and  that 
of  the  society?  I  have  dined  in  many  countries  of  Eu- 
rope and  Asia  since  then— I  have  feasted  with  aldermen, 
and  made  one  at  Soyer's  house-dinners — I  have  eaten 
the  produce  of  Borel's  larder,  and  drunk  Clos-Vougeot 
at  the  "  Trois  Freres"— I  have  discussed  the  wine  of 
Capri,  and  know  the  difl*erence  of  the  flavour  of  the  oj^s- 
ters  of  Poldoodie  and  the  Lucrine  Lake— I  have  ex- 
amined bouillabaisse  at  Marseilles  and  pilafl"  at  Con- 
stantinople—  I  have  consorted  with  epicures  of  all  ages 
and  nations, — but  I  never  saw  men  who  relished  a  dinner 
better  than  the  learned  fellows  of  Saint  Boniface !  How 
Gaster  will  relish  this  book !    I  thought  to  mj^self  a  hun- 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS  303 

dred  times  as  I  revelled  over  the  pages  of  Anne  INIiller 
and  Joseph  Bregion. 

I  do  not  believe,  however,  that  those  personages, 
namely, Bregion,  "formerly  cook  to  Prince Rasumowski" 
(I  knew  his  Highness  intimately),  "to  Prince  Nicholas 
Esterhazy,  the  Russian  Ambassador  at  Paris,  &c.,  and 
Anne  INIiller,  cook  in  several  English  families  of  dis- 
tinction," are  the  real  authors  of  this  excellent  and  truly 
"  Practical  Cook."  A  distinguished  amateur  of  cookery 
and  almost  every  other  science,  a  man  whose  erudition 
is  as  varied  and  almost  as  profound  as  your  own,  a  prac- 
tical philosopher,  who  has  visited  every  capital  in  Europe, 
their  victuals  noted  and  their  wines  surveyed,  is,  I  have 
reason  to  think,  the  real  genius  under  whose  presiding 
influence  Anne  and  Joseph  have  laboured.  For  in- 
stance, of  the  Portuguese  and  Spanish  dishes  here  de- 
scribed, the  invaluable  collection  of  Turkish  and  Indian 
receipts,  the  Sicilian  and  Hungarian  receipts,  it  is  not 
probable  that  Joseph  or  Anne  should  have  had  much 
personal  experience;  whereas  it  is  my  firm  opinion  that 
the  occult  editor  of  the  "  Practical  Cook  "  has  tasted  and 
tested  every  one  of  the  two  hundred  and  twenty-three 
thousand  edible  and  potable  formulae  contained  in  the 
volume.  A  great  genius,  he  has  a  great  appetite  and  di- 
gestion. Such  are  part  of  the  gifts  of  genius.  In 
my  own  small  way,  and  at  a  single  dinner  at  Brussels,  I 
remember  counting  twenty-nine  dishes  of  which  I  par- 
took. By  such  a  process  alone,  and  even  supposing  that 
he  did  not  work  at  breakfast  or  supper,  a  man  would  get 
through  10,480  dishes  in  a  year,  so  that  twenty  years' 
perseverance  (and  oh  how  richly  would  that  industry  be 
repaid!)  would  carry  you  through  the  whole  number 
above  specified. 

Such    a    gormandising    encyclopaedia    was    indeed 


304  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

wanted,  and  is  a  treasure  now  that  we  have  it  complete. 
You  may  feast  with  any  nation  in  the  world  as  you  turn 
over  the  pages  of  this  delightful  volume.  In  default  of 
substantial  banquets  even  imaginary  ones  are  pleasant. 
I  have  always  relished  Alnaschar's  dinner,  off  lamb  and 
pistachio-nuts,  with  the  jolly  Barmecide,  and  could,  with 
an  easy  and  thankful  heart,  say  grace  over  that  light  re- 
past. What  a  fine,  manly,  wholesome  sense  of  roast  and 
boiled,  so  to  speak,  there  is  in  the  "  Iliad "  !  In  my 
mind  I  have  often  and  often  cut  off  great  collops  of 
the  smoking  beeves  under  Achilles'  tent,  and  sat  down  to 
a  jovial  scrambling  dinner  along  with  Penelope's  suitors 
at  Ithaca.  What  appetites  Ariosto's  heroes  have,  and  the 
reader  with  them!  (Tasso's  Armida  dinners  are  rather 
theatrical  in  my  mind,  gilt  pasteboard  cups  with  nothing 
in  them,  wooden  pullets  and  pineapples,  and  so  forth. )  In 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  again,  there  reigns  a  genuine  and  noble 
feeling  for  victuals.  Witness  King  James's  cockaleekie, 
those  endless  admirable  repasts  in  "  Ivanhoe,"  especially 
that  venison  pasty  in  "  Quentin  Durward,"  of  the  fla- 
vour of  which  I  ]iave  the  most  distinct  notion,  and  to 
which  I  never  sit  down  without  appetite,  nor  quit  un- 
satisfied. The  very  thought  of  these  meals,  as,  recalling 
them  one  by  one,  I  note  them  down,  creates  a  delightful 
tickling  and  longing,  and  makes  one  quite  hungry. 

For  these  spiritual  banquets  of  course  all  cookery- 
books  are  good;  but  this  of  the  so-called  JNIiller  and 
Bregion  is  unrivalled.  I  have  sent  you  a  copy  down  to 
Oxford,  and  would  beg  you,  my  dear  Lionel,  to  have 
it  in  your  dressing-i'oom.  If  you  have  been  taking  too 
many  plovers'  eggs,  or  foie  gras  patty,  for  breakfast,  if 
you  feel  yourself  a  trifle  heavj'-  or  incommoded  after  a 
hot  luncheon,  you  naturally  mount  your  cob,  take  a 


BARMECIDE   BANQUETS  805 

gentle  breathing  for  a  couple  of  hours  on  the  Blenheim 
or  Bagley  road,  and  return  to  dress  for  dinner  at  the 
last  minute ;  still  f eehng  that  you  have  not  got  your  ap- 
petite quite  back,  and,  in  spite  of  the  exercise,  that  you 
are  not  altogether  up  to  the  good  things  of  the  fellows' 
table.  In  this  case  (which  may  often  occur),  take  my 
advice.  Instead  of  riding  for  two  hours,  curtail  your 
exercise,  and  only  trot  for  an  hour  and  forty  minutes. 
Spend  these  twenty  minutes  in  your  easy-chair  over  the 
"  Practical  Cook."  Begin  almost  at  any  page.  After 
the  first  few  paragraphs  the  languor  and  heaviness  begin 
to  disappear.  The  idea  of  dining,  which  was  quite  dis- 
agreeable to  you  half-an-hour  since,  begins  to  be  no 
longer  repulsive — a  new  interest  springs  up  in  your 
breast  for  things  edible — fancy  awakens  the  dormant 
appetite,  which  the  coarse  remedj^  of  a  jolt  on  horseback 
had  failed  to  rouse,  and,  as  the  second  bell  rings,  you 
hasten  down  to  Hall  with  eagerness,  for  j^ou  know  and 
feel  that  vou  are  huno^ry.  For  some  time  I  had  the  book 
by  my  bedside,  and  used  to  read  it  of  nights ;  but  this  is 
most  dangerous.  Twice  I  was  obliged  to  get  up  and 
dress  myself  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  go  out 
to  hunt  for  some  supper. 

As  you  begin  at  the  preface  of  the  book  it  charms  you 
with  its  philosophical  tone. 

"  Far  are  we  from  saying  that  a  dinner  should  not  be  a  subject 
of  morning  or  mid-day  meditation  or  of  luxurious  desire ;  but  in 
the  present  advanced  state  of  civilisation,  and  of  medical  and 
chemical  knowledge,  something  more  than  kneading,  baking, 
stewing,  and  boiling  are  necessary  in  any  nation  pretending  to 
civilisation.  The  metropolis  of  England  exceeds  Paris  in  ex- 
tent and  population :  it  commands  a  greater  supply  of  all  articles 
of  consumption,  and  contains  a  greater  number  and  variety  of 


306  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

markets,  whicli  are  better  supplied.  We  greatly  surpass  the 
French  in  mutton,  we  produce  better  beef,  lamb,  and  pork,  and 
are  immeasurably  superior  both  in  the  quantity  and  quality  of 
our  fish,  our  venison,  and  our  game,  yet  we  cannot  compare,  as 
a  nation,  with  the  higher,  the  middle,  or  the  lower  classes  in 
France,  in  the  science  of  preparing  our  daily  food.  The  only 
articles  of  food  in  the  quality  of  which  the  French  surpass  us  are 
veal  and  fowl,  but  such  is  the  skill  and  science  of  their  cooks,  that 
with  worse  mutton,  worse  beef,  and  worse  lamb  than  ours,  they 
produce  better  chops,  cutlets,  steaks  and  better  made-dishes  of 
every  nature  and  kind  whatsoever.  In  fricassees,  ragouts,  salmis, 
quenelles,  purees,  filets,  and  more  especially  in  the  dressing  of 
vegetables,  our  neighbours  surpass  us,  and  we  see  no  good  reason 
why  we  should  not  imitate  them  in  a  matter  in  which  they  are  so 
perfect,  or  why  their  more  luxurious,  more  varied,  more  palatable, 
and  more  dainty  cookery,  should  not  be  introduced  among  the 
higher  and  middle  classes  to  more  general  notice." 

No  Joseph  Bregion,  though  Rasumowski's  chef;  no 
Anne  Miller,  though  cook  to  ever  so  many  English  fam- 
ilies of  distinction,  could  write  like  this.  No,  no.  This 
is  not  merely  a  practical  cook,  but  a  practical  philoso- 
pher, whose  pen  we  think  we  recognise,  and  who  wishes 
to  reconcile  ourselves  and  our  Gallic  neighbours  by  the 
noble  means  of  a  good  dinner.  There  is  no  blinking  the 
matter  here;  no  foolish  vainglory  and  vapouring  con- 
tempt of  Frenchmen,  such  as  some  Britons  are  wont  to 
indulge  in,  such  as  all  Frenchmen  endeavour  to  make 
pass  for  real.  Scotland,  they  say,  is  the  best  cultivated 
country  of  Europe;  and  why?— because  it  is  the  most 
barren.  Your  Neapolitan  peasant  lolls  in  the  sunshine 
all  day,  leaving  his  acres  to  produce  spontaneous  melons 
and  volunteer  grapes,  with  which  the  lazy  farmer  nour- 
ishes liimself.    Your  canny  Scot  invents  manures,  rota- 


BARMECIDE   BANQUETS  307 

tory  crops,  subsoil-ploughs,  tile-drains,  and  other  labor- 
ious wonders  of  agriculture,  with  which  he  forces  re- 
luctant Nature  to  be  bountiful  to  him.  And  as  with 
the  fruits  of  the  field,  so  it  is  with  the  beasts  thereof; 
because  we  have  fine  mutton  to  our  hand,  we  neglect 
cookery.  The  French,  who  have  worse  mutton,  worse 
beef,  and  worse  lamb  than  ours,  produce  better  chops, 
cutlets,  and  steaks.  This  sentence  should  be  painted  up 
as  a  motto  in  all  our  kitchens.  Let  cooks  blush  when 
they  read  it.  Let  housekeej^ers  meditate  upon  it.  I  am 
not  writing  in  a  burlesque  or  bantering  strain.  Let  this 
truth  be  brought  home  to  the  bosoms  of  English  kitch- 
ens, and  the  greatest  good  may  be  done. 

The  grand  and  broad  principles  of  cookery  or  cookies 
thus  settled,  the  authors  begin  to  dissert  upon  the  various 
branches  of  the  noble  science,  regarding  all  of  which  they 
have  to  say  something  new,  or  pleasant,  or  noble.  Just 
read  the  heads  of  the  chapters, — what  a  pleasant  smack 
and  gusto  they  have! — 

Rules  necessary  to  be  observed  by  Cooks  in  the  Regula- 
tion AND  Management  of  their  Larder. 

Observations  as  to  Undressed  Meats. 

Observations  on  the  Kitchen  and  its  Utensils. 

Observations  on  and  Directions  for  Carving. 

General  Observations  on  English  Soups  and  Broths,  and 
Directions  concerning  them. 

Observations  on  Meat  in  General. 

The  mere  titles  themselves  are  provocative  of  pleasant 
thoughts  and  savoury  meditations.  I  seize  on  them.  I 
sniff  them  spiritually.  I  eye  them  (with  the  eyes  of  the 
imagination)  yearningly.  I  have  seen  little  penniless 
boys  eyeing  meat  and  puddings  in  cookshops  so — no 
pleasant  occupation  perhaps  to  the  hungry — but  good 


808  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

and  wholesome  for  such  as  have  dined  to-day  and  can 
afford  to  do  so  to-morrow.  Even  after  dinner,  I  say  this 
book  is  pleasant  to  read  and  think  over.  I  hate  the  grace- 
less wretch  who  begins  to  be  disgusted  with  eating  so 
soon  as  his  own  appetite  is  satisfied.  Your  truly  hospit- 
able man  loves  to  see  others  eating  happity  around  him, 
though  satiety  has  caused  him  to  lay  down  his  own  knife 
and  fork;  the  spectacle  of  a  hungry  fellow-creature's 
enjoyment  gives  a  benevolent  gormandiser  pleasure.  I 
am  writing  this  very  line  after  an  excellent  repast  of 
three  courses;  and  yet  this  mere  account  of  an  English 
dinner  awakens  in  me  an  active  interest  and  a  manly  and 
generous  sympathy. 

"  On  laying  out  a  table. — The  manner  of  laying  out  a  table  is 
nearly  the  same  in  all  parts  of  the  United  Kingdom :  yet  there 
are  trifling  local  peculiarities  to  which  the  mistress  of  a  house 
must  attend.  A  centre  ornament,  whether  it  be  a  dormant,  a 
plateau,  an  epergne,  or  a  candelabra,  is  found  so  convenient,  and 
contributes  so  much  to  the  good  appearance  of  the  table,  that  a 
fashionable  dinner  is  now  seldom  or  never  set  out  without  some- 
thing of  this  kind. 

"  Utility  should  be  the  true  principle  of  beauty,  at  least  in 
affairs  of  the  table,  and,  above  all,  in  the  substantial  first  course. 
A  very  false  taste  is,  however,  often  shown  in  centre  ornaments. 
Strange  ill-assorted  nosegays  and  bouquets  of  artificial  flowers 
begin  to  droop  or  look  faded  among  hot  steams.  Ornamental 
articles  of  family  plate,  carved,  chased,  or  merely  plain,  can 
never  be  out  of  place,  however  old-fashioned.  In  desserts,  richly- 
cut  glass  is  ornamental.  We  are  far,  also,  from  proscribing  the 
foliage  and  moss  in  which  fruits  are  sometimes  seen  bedded.  The 
sparkling  imitation  of  frost-work,  which  is  given  to  preserved 
fruits  and  other  things,  is  also  exceedingly  beautiful ;  as  are 
many  of  the  trifles  belonging  to  French  and  Italian  confec- 
tionery. 


BARMECIDE   BANQUETS  309 

"  Beautifully  white  damask,  and  a  green  cloth  underneath,  are 
indispensable. 

"  In  all  ranks,  and  in  every  family,  one  important  art  in  house- 
keeping is  to  make  what  remains  from  one  day's  entertainment 
contribute  to  the  elegance  or  plenty  of  the  next  day's  dinner. 
This  is  a  principle  understood  by  persons  in  the  very  highest 
ranks  of  society,  who  maintain  the  most  splendid  and  expensive 
establishments.  Vegetables,  ragouts,  and  soups  may  be  re- 
warmed;  and  jellies  and  blancmange  remoulded,  with  no  deterio- 
ration of  their  qualities.  Savoury  or  sweet  patties,  croquets,  ris- 
soles, vol-au-vents,  fritters,  tartlets,  &c.,  may  be  served  with  al- 
most no  cost,  where  cookery  is  going  forward  on  a  large  scale. 
In  the  French  kitchen,  a  numerous  class  of  culinary  preparations, 
called  entrees  de  dessert,  or  made-dishes  of  left  things,  are  served 
even  at  grand  entertainments. 

"At  dinners  of  any  pretension,  the  First  Course  consists  of 
soups  and  fish,  removed  by  boiled  poultry,  ham,  or  tongue,  roasts, 
stews,  &c. ;  and  of  vegetables,  with  a  few  made-dishes,  as  ragouts, 
curries,  hashes,  cutlets,  patties,  fricandeaux,  &c.,  in  as  great  va- 
riety as  the  number  of  dishes  permits.  For  the  Second  Course, 
roasted  poultry  or  game  at  the  top  and  bottom,  with  dressed 
vegetables,  omelets,  macaroni,  jellies,  creams,  salads,  preserved 
fruit,  and  all  sorts  of  sweet  things  and  pastry,  are  employed — 
endeavouring  to  give  an  article  of  each  sort,  as  a  jelly  and  a 
cream,  as  will  be  exemplified  in  bills  of  fare  which  follow.  This 
is  a  more  common  arrangement  than  three  courses,  which  are  at- 
tended with  so  much  additional  trouble  both  to  the  guests  and 
servants. 

"  Whether  the  dinner  be  of  two  or  three  courses,  it  is  managed 
nearly  in  the  same  way.  Two  dishes  of  fish  dressed  in  different 
ways — if  suitable — should  occupy  the  top  and  bottom;  and  two 
soups,  a  white  and  a  brown,  or  a  mild  and  a  high-seasoned,  are 
best  disposed  on  each  side  of  the  centre-piece ;  the  fish-sauces  are 
placed  between  the  centre-piece  and  the  dish  of  fish  to  which  each 
is  appropriate ;  and  this,  with  the  decanted  wines  drunk  durino; 


310  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

dinner,  forms  the  first  course.  When  there  are  rare  French  or 
Rhenish  wines,  they  are  placed  in  the  original  bottles,  in  orna- 
mented wine-vases,  between  the  centre-piece  and  the  top  and  bot- 
tom dishes ;  or  if  four  kinds,  they  are  ranged  round  the  plateau. 
If  one  bottle,  it  is  placed  in  a  vase  in  the  centre. 

"  The  Second  Course  at  a  purely  English  dinner,  when  there 
are  three,  consists  of  roasts  and  stews  for  the  top  and  bottom; 
turkey  or  fowls,  or  fricandeau,  or  ham  garnished,  or  tongue,  for 
the  sides ;  with  small  made-dishes  for  the  corners,  served  in  cov- 
ered dishes ;  as  palates^  currie  of  any  kind,  ragout  or  fricassee  of 
rabbits,  stewed  mushrooms,  &c.  &c. 

"  The  Third  Course  consists  of  game,  confectionery,  the  more 
delicate  vegetables  dressed  in  the  French  way,  puddings,  creams, 
jellies,  &c. 

"  Caraffes,  with  the  tumblers  belonging  to  and  placed  over 
them,  are  laid  at  proper  intervals.  Where  hock,  champagne,  &c. 
&c.  are  served,  they  are  handed  round  between  the  courses.  When 
the  third  course  is  cleared  away,  cheese,  butter,  a  fresh  salad,  or 
sliced  cucumber,  are  usually  served;  and  the  finger-glasses  pre- 
cede the  dessert.  At  many  tables,  particularly  in  Indian  houses, 
it  is  customary  merely  to  hand  quickly  round  a  glass  vessel  or  two 
filled  with  simple,  or  simply  perfumed  tepid  water,  made  by  the 
addition  of  a  little  rose  or  lavender  water,  or  a  home-made 
strained  infusion  of  rose-leaves  or  lavender  spikes.  Into  this 
water  each  guest  may  dip  the  corner  of  his  napkin,  and  with  this 
refresh  his  lips  and  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"  The  Dessert,  at  an  English  table,  may  consist  merely  of  two 
dishes  of  fine  fruit  for  the  top  and  bottom;  common  or  dried 
fruits,  filberts,  &c.,  for  the  corners  or  sides,  and  a  cake  for  the 
middle,  with  ice-pails  in  hot  weather.  Liqueurs  are  at  this  stage 
handed  round;  and  the  wines  usually  drunk  after  dinner  are 
placed  decanted  on  the  table  along  with  the  dessert.  The  ice-pails 
and  plates  are  removed  as  soon  as  the  company  finish  their  ice. 
This  may  be  better  understood  by  following  the  exact  arrange- 
ment of  what  is  considered  a  fashionable  dinner  of  three  courses 
and  a  dessert." 


BARMECIDE   BANQUETS  311 

Now  what  can  be  finer  than  this  description  of  a  feed? 
How  it  recalls  old  days  and  old  dinners,  and  makes  one 
long  for  the  return  of  friends  to  London  and  the  open- 
ing of  the  dining  campaign!  It  is  not  far  removed, 
praised  be  luck.  Already  the  lawyers  are  coming  back 
(and,  let  me  tell  you,  some  of  the  judges  give  uncom- 
monly good  dinners),  railroad  speculations  are  bring- 
ing or  keeping  a  good  number  of  men  of  fortune  about 
town:  presently  we  shall  have  Parliament,  the  chief 
good  of  which  institution  is,  as  I  take  it,  that  it  collects 
in  London  respectable  wealthy  dinner-giving  families; 
and  then  the  glorious  operations  will  commence  again; 
and  I  hope  that  you,  dear  Lionel  (on  j^our  occasional 
visits  to  London),  and  your  humble  servant  and  every 
good  epicure  will,  six  times  at  least  in  every  week,  realise 
that  delightful  imaginary  banquet  here  laid  out  in  type. 

But  I  wish  to  offer  a  few  words  of  respectful  remon- 
strance and  approving  observation  regarding  the  opin- 
ions delivered  above.  The  description  of  the  dinner,  as  it 
actually  exists,  we  will  pass  over;  but  it  is  of  dinners  as 
they  should  be  that  I  would  speak.  Some  statements 
in  the  Bregion-JNIiller  account  I  would  question;  of 
others  I  deplore  that  they  should  be  true. 

In  the  first  place — as  to  central  ornaments — have 
them,  as  handsome,  as  massive  as  you  like — but  be 
hanged  to  flowers!  I  say;  and,  above  all,  no  candelabra 
on  the  table — no  cross-lights;  faces  are  not  seen  in  the 
midst  of  the  abominable  cross-lights,  and  you  don't  know 
who?  is  across  the  table.  Have  your  lights  rich  and  bril- 
liant overhead,  blazing  on  the  sideboard,  and  gleaming 
hospitably  from  as  many  sconces  as  you  please  along  the 
walls,  but  no  lights  on  the  table.  "  Roses,  bouquets, 
moss,  and  foliage,"  I  have  an  utter  contempt  for  as  quite 
foolish  ornaments,  that  have  no  right  to  appear  in  at- 


312  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

mospheres  composed  of  the  fumes  of  ham,  gravy,  soup, 
game,  lobster-sauce,  &:c.  Away  with  all  poetastering  at 
dinner-parties.  Though  your  friends  Plato  and  Socrates 
crowned  themselves  with  garlands  at  dinner,  I  have  al- 
ways fancied  Socrates  an  ass  for  his  pains.  Fancy  old 
Noddly,  of  your  college,  or  your  own  venerable  mug  or 
mine,  set  off  with  a  wreath  of  tulips  or  a  garland  of  roses, 
as  we  ladled  down  the  turtle-soup  in  your  hall!  The 
thought  is  ridiculous  and  odious.  Flowers  were  not 
made  to  eat — away  with  them!  I  doubt  even  whether 
young  unmarried  ladies  should  be  allowed  to  come  down 
to  dinner.  They  are  a  sort  of  flowers — pretty  little  sen- 
timental gewgaws — what  can  they  know  about  eating? 
They  should  only  be  brought  down  for  balls,  and  should 
dine  upon  roast  mutton  in  the  nursery. 

"  Beautiful  white  damask  and  a  green  cloth  are  indis- 
pensable." Ah,  my  dear  Lionel,  on  this  head  I  exclaim, 
let  me  see  the  old  mahogany  back  again,  with  the  crystal, 
and  the  wine  quivering  and  gleaming  in  it.  I  am  sorry 
for  the  day  when  the  odious  fashion  of  leaving  the  cloth 
down  was  brought  from  across  the  water.  They  leave 
the  cloth  on  a  French  table  because  it  is  necessary  to  dis- 
guise it;  it  is  often  a  mere  set  of  planks  on  tressels,  the 
meanness  of  which  they  disguise  as  they  disguise  the 
j^overty  of  their  meat.  Let  us  see  the  naked  mahogany ;  it 
means,  I  think,  not  only  a  good  dinner,  but  a  good  drink 
after  dinner.  In  houses  where  they  leave  the  cloth  down 
you  know  they  are  going  to  shirk  their  wine.  And  what 
is  a  dinner  without  a  subsequent  drink?  A  mockery — 
an  incomplete  enjoyment  at  least.  Do  you  and  I  go  out 
to  dine  that  we  may  have  the  pleasure  of  drinking  tea  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  hearing  Miss  Anne  or  Miss  Jane 
sing?    Fiddlededee!    I  can  get  the  best  singing  in  the 


BARMECIDE   BANQUETS  313 

world  for  half -a-guinea !  Do  we  expend  money  in  cabs, 
kid-gloves,  and  awful  waistcoats,  in  order  to  get  muffins 
and  tea?  Bah!  Nay,  does  any  man  of  sense  declare 
honestly  that  he  likes  ladies'  conversation?  I  have  read 
in  novels  that  it  was  pleasant,  the  refinement  of  woman's 
society — the  delightful  influence  of  a  female  presence, 
and  so  forth ;  but  say  now,  as  a  man  of  the  world  and  an 
honest  fellow,  did  you  ever  get  any  good  out  of  women's 
talk?  What  a  bore  a  clever  woman  is! — what  a  frightful 
bore  a  mediocre  respectable  woman  is!  And  every  wo- 
man who  is  worth  anything  will  confess  as  much.  There 
is  no  woman  but  one  after  all.  But  mum !  I  am  getting 
away  from  the  dinner-table;  they  it  was  who  dragged 
me  from  it,  and  it  was  for  parsimony's  sake,  and  to 
pleasure  them,  that  the  practice  of  leaving  on  the  cloth 
for  dessert  was  invented. 

This  I  honestly  say  as  a  diner-out  in  the  world.  If  I 
accept  an  invitation  to  a  house  where  the  dessert-cloth 
practice  is  maintained  (it  must  be,  I  fear,  in  large  din- 
ners of  apparat  now,  but  I  mean  in  common  reunions 
of  ten  or  fourteen)  — if  I  accept  a  dessert-cloth  invita- 
tion, and  a  mahogany  invitation  subsequently  comes,  I 
fling  over  dessert-cloth.  To  ask  you  to  a  dinner  without 
a  drink  is  to  ask  you  to  half  a  dinner. 

This  I  say  in  the  interest  of  every  diner-out.  An  un- 
guarded passage  in  the  above  description,  too,  might 
give  rise  to  a  fatal  error,  and  be  taken  advantage  of  by 
stingy  curmudgeons  who  are  anxious  for  any  oppor- 
tunity of  saving  their  money  and  liquor,  — I  mean  those 
culpably  careless  words,  "  Where  hock,  champagne,  S^c. 
^c,  are  served,  they  are  handed  round  between  the 
courses/'  Of  course  they  are  handed  round  between  the 
courses;  but  they  are  handed  round  during  the  courses 


314  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

too.  A  man  who  sets  you  down  to  a  driblet  of  cham- 
pagne—who gives  you  a  couple  of  beggarly  glasses  be- 
tween the  courses,  and  winks  to  John  who  froths  up  the 
liquor  in  your  glass,  and  screws  up  the  remainder  of  the 
bottle  for  his  master's  next  day's  drinking,— such  a  man 
is  an  impostor  and  despicable  snob.  This  fellow  must 
not  be  allowed  an  excuse  for  his  practice — the  wretch 
must  not  be  permitted  to  point  to  Joseph  Bregion  and 
Anne  IVIiller  for  an  authority,  and  say  they  declare  that 
champagne  is  to  be  served  only  between  the  courses. 
No!— no!  you  poor  lily-livered  wretch!  If  money  is  an 
object  to  you,  drink  water  (as  we  have  all  done,  perhaps, 
in  an  august  state  of  domestic  circumstances,  with  a 
good  heart)  ;  but  if  there  is  to  be  champagne,  have  no 
stint  of  it,  in  the  name  of  Bacchus!  Profusion  is  the 
charm  of  hospitality ;  have  plenty,  if  it  be  only  beer.  A 
man  who  offers  champagne  by  driblets  is  a  fellow  who 
would  wear  a  pinchbeck  breastpin,  or  screw  on  spurs  to 
his  boots  to  make  believe  that  he  kept  a  horse.  I  have  no 
words  of  scorn  sufficiently  strong  to  characterise  the 
puny  coward,  shivering  on  the  brink  of  hospitality,  with- 
out nerve  to  plunge  into  the  generous  stream ! 

Another  word  should  be  said  to  men  of  modei*ate 
means  about  that  same  champagne.  It  is  actually  one 
of  the  cheapest  of  wines,  and  there  is  no  wine,  out  of 
which,  to  speak  commercially,  you  get  your  returns  so 
directly.  The  popping,  and  fizzing,  and  agreeable  ner- 
vous hurry  in  pouring  and  drinking,  give  it  a  prestige 
and  an  extra  importance — it  makes  twice  the  appear- 
ance, has  twice  the  effect,  and  doesn't  cost  you  more  than 
a  bottle  of  your  steady,  old,  brown  sherry,  which  has 
gathered  on  his  head  the  interest  of  accumulated  years 
in  your  cellar.    When  people  have  had  plenty  of  cham- 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS  315 

pagne  they  fancy  they  have  been  treated  Hberally.  If 
you  wish  to  save,  save  upon  your  hocks,  Sauternes,  and 
Moselles,  which  count  for  nothing,  but  disappear  down 
careless  throats  like  so  much  toast  and  water. 

I  have  made  this  remark  about  champagne.  All  men 
of  the  world  say  they  don't  care  for  it;  all  gourmands 
swear  and  vow  that  they  prefer  Sillery  a  thousand  times 
to  sparkling,  but  look  round  the  table  and  behold !  We 
all  somehow  drink  it.  All  who  say  they  like  the  Sillery 
will  be  found  drinking  the  sparkling.  Yes,  beloved 
sparkler,  you  are  an  artificial,  barley-sugared,  brandied 
beverage,  according  to  the  dicta  of  connoisseurs.  You 
are  universally  sneered  at,  and  said  to  have  no  good  in 
you.  But  console  yourself,  you  are  universally  drunken 
— you  are  the  wine  of  the  world, — you  are  the  liquor  in 
whose  bubbles  lies  the  greatest  amount  of  the  sparkle  of 
good  spirits.  May  I  die  but  I  will  not  be  ashamed  to 
proclaim  my  love  for  you!  You  have  given  me  much 
pleasure,  and  never  any  pain — you  have  stood  by  me  in 
many  hard  moments,  and  cheered  me  in  many  dull  ones 
— you  have  whipped  up  many  flagging  thoughts,  and  dis- 
sipated many  that  were  gloomy — you  have  made  me  hope, 
ay,  and  forget.    Ought  a  man  to  disown  such  a  friend? 

Incomparably  the  best  champagne  I  know  is  to  be 
found  in  England.  It  is  the  most  doctored,  the  most 
brandied,  the  most  barley-sugared,  the  most  winy  wine 
in  the  world.    As  such  let  us  hail,  and  honour,  and  love  it. 

Those  precious  words  about  rechauffes  and  the  art  of 
making  the  remains  of  one  day's  entertainment  con- 
tribute to  the  elegance  and  plenty  of  the  next  day's  din- 
ner, cannot  be  too  fondly  pondered  over  by  housekeep- 
ers, or  too  often  brought  into  practice.  What  is  it, 
ladies,  that  so  often  drives  out  men  to  clubs,  and  leaves 


316  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

the  domestic  hearth  desolate— what  but  bad  dinners? 
And  whose  fault  is  the  bad  dinners  but  yours— yours, 
forsooth,  who  are  too  intellectual  to  go  into  the  kitchen, 
and  too  delicate  to  think  about  your  husband's  victuals? 
I  know  a  case  in  which  the  misery  of  a  whole  life,  nay,  of 
a  whole  series  of  little  and  big  lives,  arose  from  a  wife's 
high  and  mighty  neglect  of  the  good  things  of  life,  where 
ennui,  estrangement,  and  subsequent  ruin  and  suicide, 
arose  out  of  an  obstinate  practice  of  serving  a  leg  of 
mutton  three  days  running  in  a  small  respectable  family. 

INIy  friend,  whom  I  shall  call  Mortimer  Delamere  ( for 
why  not  give  the  unfortunate  fellow  as  neat  and  as  ele- 
gant a  name  as  possible,  as  I  am  obliged  to  keep  his  own 
back  out  of  regard  to  his  family?)  — Mortimer  Delamere 
was  an  ornament  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  married 
at  the  age  of  twenty-five. 

Before  marriage  he  had  a  comfortable  cottage  at  Sut- 
ton, whither  he  used  to  drive  after  business  hours,  and 
where  you  had  roast  ducks,  toasted  cheese,  steaks  and 
onions,  wonderful  bottled  stout  and  old  port,  and  other 
of  those  savoury  but  somewhat  coarse  luxuries  with 
which  home-keeping  bachelors  sometimes  recreate  their 
palates.  He  married  and  quitted  his  friends  and  his 
little  hospitalities,  his  punch  and  his  cigars,  for  a  genteel 
wife  and  house  in  the  Regent's  Park,  where  I  once  had 
the  misfortune  to  take  pot-luck  with  him. 

That  dinner,  which  I  never  repeated,  showed  me  at 
once  that  Delamere's  liappiness  was  a  wreck.  He  had 
cold  mutton  and  mouldy  potatoes.  His  genteel  wife, 
when  he  humbly  said  that  he  should  have  preferred  the 
mutton  hashed,  answered  superciliously  that  the  kitchen 
was  not  her  province,  that  as  long  as  there  was  food  suf- 
ficient she  did  not  heed  its  quality.     She  talked  about 


BARMECIDE   BANQUETS  317 

poetry  and  the  Reverend  Robert  ^Montgomery  all  the 
evening,  and  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  she  had 
left  us  to  ourselves  and  the  dessert,  summoned  us  to  ex- 
ceedingly weak  and  muddy  coffee  in  the  drawing-room, 
where  she  subsequently  entertained  us  with  bad  music, 
sung  with  her  own  cracked,  false,  genteel  voice.  ^M}^ 
usual  politeness  and  powers  of  conversation  did  not  of 
course  desert  me  even  under  this  affliction;  and  she  was 
pleased  to  say  at  the  close  of  the  entertainment  that  she 
had  enjoyed  a  highly  intellectual  evening,  and  hoped 
jNIr.  Fitz-Boodle  would  repeat  his  visit.  ]Mr.  Fitz- 
Boodle  would  have  seen  her  at  Jericho  first ! 

But  what  was  the  consequence  of  a  life  of  this  sort? 
Where  the  mutton  is  habitually  cold  in  a  house,  depend 
on  it  the  affection  grows  cold  too.  Delamere  could  not 
bear  that  comfortless,  flavourless,  frigid  existence.  He 
took  refuge  in  the  warmth  of  a  club.  He  frequented  not 
only  the  library  and  coffee-room,  but,  alas !  the  smoking- 
room  and  card-room.  He  became  a  viveiir  and  jolly  dog 
about  town,  neglecting  the  wife  who  had  neglected  him, 
and  who  is  now  separated  from  him,  and  proclaimed  to 
be  a  martyr  by  her  genteel  family,  whereas,  in  fact,  her 
own  selfishness  was  the  cause  of  his  falling  away.  Had 
she  but  condescended  to  hash  his  mutton  and  give  him  a 
decent  dinner,  the  poor  fellow  would  have  been  at  home  to 
this  day ;  would  never  have  gone  to  the  club  or  played  with 
jNIr.  Denman,  who  won  his  money ;  would  never  have  been 
fascinated  bv  Senhora  Dolora,  who  caused  his  duel  with 
Ca})tain  Tuf to ;  would  never  have  been  obliged  to  fly  to 
America  after  issuing  bills  which  he  could  not  take  up — 
bills,  alas !  with  somebody  else's  name  written  on  them. 

I  venture  to  say  that  if  the  "  Practical  Cook  "  had 
been  published,  and  ^Irs.  Delamere  had  condescended  to 


318  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

peruse  it;  if  she  had  read  pages  30-32,  for  instance, 
with  such  simple  receipts  as  these; — 

BILLS  OF  FARE  FOR  PLAIN  FAMILY  DINNERS 


Dinners  of  Five  Dishes 
Peas  or  Mulligatawny  Soup. 
Potatoes  browned       Apple  Dumpling,        Mashed  Turnips 
below  the  Roast  or  Plain  Fritters.  or  Pickles. 

Roast  Shoulder  of  Mutton. 


Haddocks  boiled,  with  Parsley  and  Butter  Sauce. 
Potatoes.  Newmarket  Pudding.  Rice  or 

Haricot,  Currie,  Hash,  or  Grill,  Pickles. 

of  the  Mutton  of  the  former  day. 


Knuckle  of  Veal  Ragout,  or  with  Rice. 
Stewed  Endive.  A  Charlotte.  Potatoes. 

Roast  of  Pork,  or  Pork  Chops — Sage  Sauce,  or  Sauce  Piquant e. 


Boiled  Cod,  with  Oyster,  Egg,  or  Dutch  Sauce. 
Potatoes.  Mutton  Broth.  Carrots  or 

Scrag  of  Mutton,  with  Turnips. 

Caper  Sauce,  or  Parsley  and  Butter. 


Cod  Currie,  or  a  Bechamel,  of  the  Fish  of  former  day. 
Scolloped  Oysters.  Rice  Pudding.  Mashed  Potatoes. 

Roast  Ribs  of  Beef. 


Bouilli,  garnished  with  Onions. 

Beef  Cecils,  of  the 
Marrow  Bones.       Soup  of  the  Bouilli.       Roast  Ribs  of  the 

former  day. 
Lamb  Chops,  with  Potatoes. 
Vegetables  on  the  Side- table. 

she  woukl  have  had  her  husband  at  liome  every  day.    As 
I  read  them  over  myself,  dwelling  upon  each,  I  say  in- 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS  319 

wardly,  "  Could  I  find  a  wife  who  did  not  sing,  and  who 
would  daily  turn  me  out  such  dinners  as  these,  Fitz- 
Boodle  himself  would  be  a  family  man."  See  there  how 
the  dishes  are  made  to  play  into  one  another's  hands; 
how  the  roast  shoulder  of  mutton  of  Monday  (though 
there  is  no  mention  made  of  the  onion  sauce)  becomes 
the  currie  or  grill  of  Tuesday;  how  the  boiled  cod  of 
Thursday  becomes  the  bechamel  of  Friday,  a  still  better 
thing  than  boiled  cod!  Feed  a  man  according  to  those 
receipts,  and  I  engage  to  say  he  never  would  dine  out, 
especially  on  Saturdaj^s,  with  that  delicious  bouilli  gar- 
nished with  onions, — though,  to  be  sure,  there  is  a  trifle 
too  much  beef  in  the  carte  of  the  daj'^ ;  and  I  for  my  part 
should  prefer  a  dish  of  broiled  fish  in  the  place  of  the 
lamb-chops  with  potatoes  the  dinner  as  it  stands  here 
being  a  trifle  too  brown. 

One  day  in  the  week  a  man  miffht  have  a  few  friends 
and  give  them  any  one  of  these: — 

Good  Family  Dinners  of  Seven  Dishes 

Crimped  Salmon. 

Lobster  Sauce,  or  Parsley  and  Butter. 

Mashed  Potatoes,  Mince  Pies,  or  Rissoles. 

in  small  shapes.  Irish  Stew. 

{Remove — Apple-pie.) 
Oxford  Dumplings.  Mince  Veal. 

Pickles. 
Roast  of  Beef. 


Irish  Stew,  or  Haricot  of  Mutton. 
Chickens.  Mashed  Potatoes. 

Fritters. 
Apple  Sauce  Tongue  on  Spinach, 

or  a  Piece  of  Ham. 
Stubble  Goose. 


320  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Fried  Soles. 
Savoury  Patties.  Onion  Soup.  Salad. 

{Remove — A  Charlotte.) 
Macaroni.  Sliced  Cucumber.         Veal  Sweetbreads 

Saddle  of  Mutton  roasted. 

Very  moderate  means  might  enable  a  man  to  give  such 
a  dinner  as  this;  and  how  good  they  all  are!  I  should 
like  to  see  eight  good  fellows  over  No.  3,  for  instance, — 
six  men,  say,  and  two  ladies.  They  would  not  take  any 
onion  soup,  of  course,  though  all  the  men  would ;  but  the 
veal  sweetbreads  and  the  remove,  a  charlotte^  are  mani- 
festly meant  for  them.  There  would  be  no  champagne, 
the  dinner  is  too  jolly  and  bourgeois  for  that;  but  after 
they  had  partaken  of  a  glass  of  wine  and  had  retired,  just 
three  bottles  of  excellent  claret  would  be  discussed  by  us 
six,  and  every  man  who  went  upstairs  to  coffee  would 
make  himself  agreeable.  In  such  a  house  the  coffee 
would  be  good.  The  way  to  make  good  coffee  is  a  secret 
known  only  to  very  few  housekeepers, — it  is  to  have 
plenty  of  coffee. 

Thus  do  Joseph  Bregion  and  Anne  Miller  care  for 
high  and  low.  They  provide  the  domestic  dinner  to  be 
calm  in  the  bosoms  of  private  families ;  they  invent  bills 
of  fare  for  the  jolly  family  party,  that  pleasantest  of  all 
meetings;  and  they  expand  upon  occasion  and  give  us 
the  magnificent  parade  banquet  of  three  courses,  at  which 
kings  or  fellows  of  colleges  may  dine.  If  you  will  ask 
your  cook  at  Saint  Boniface  to  try  either  of  the  dinners 
marked  for  January  and  February,  and  will  send  your 
obedient  servant  a  line,  he  for  one  will  be  happy  to  come 
down  and  partake  of  it  at  Oxford. 

I  could  go  on  prattling  in  this  easy  innocent  way  for 
hours,  my  dear  Lionel,  but  the  Editor  of  this  Magazine 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS  321 

(about  Avhose  capabilities  I  have  my  own  opinion)  has 
hmited  me  to  space,  and  that  space  is  now  pretty  nearly 
occupied.  I  should  like  to  have  had  a  chat  with  you 
about  the  Indian  dishes,  the  chapter  on  which  is  very  sci- 
entific and  savoury.  The  soup  and  broth  chapter  is  rich, 
learned,  and  philosophical.  French  cookery  is  not,  of 
course,  approfondi  or  elaborately  described,  but  nobly 
raisonne,  like  one  of  your  lectures  on  a  Greek  play,  where 
you  point  out  in  eloquent  terms  the  salient  beauties, 
sketch  with  masterly  rapidity  the  principal  characters, 
and  gracefully  unweave  the  complications  of  the  metre. 
But  I  have  done.  The  "  Practical  Cook  "  will  triumph 
of  his  own  force  without  my  puny  aid  to  drag  the  wheels 
of  his  car.  Let  me  fling  a  few  unpretending  flowers  over 
it,  and  sing  lo  to  the  victor!  Happy  is  the  writer,  happy 
the  possessor,  happy  above  all  the  publishers  of  such  a 
book! 

Farewell,  dear  Lionel ;  present  my  respectful  remem- 
brances to  the  Master  of  your  college  and  our  particular 
chums  in  the  common-room.  I  am  come  to  town  for 
Christmas,  so  you  may  send  the  brawn  to  my  lodgings  as 
soon  as  you  like. 

Your  faithful 

Gr.  S.  F.-B. 

{Fraser's  Magazine,  November  1845.) 


A  BROTHER  OF  THE  PRESS  ON  THE  HIS- 
TORY OF  A  LITERARY  MAN,  LAMAN 
BLANCH ARD,  AND  THE  CHANCES 
OF  THE  LITERARY  PROFESSION 

IN   A  LETTER  TO  THE  REVEREND   FRANCIS   SYLVESTER   AT 
ROME,   FROM   MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMARSH^  ESQUIRE 

London:  Feb.  20,  1846, 

MY  DEAR  SIR,— Our  good  friend  and  patron,  the 
publisher  of  this  Magazine,  has  brought  me  your 
message  from  Rome,  and  your  demand  to  hear  news 
from  the  other  great  city  of  the  world.  As  the  forty  col- 
umns of  the  Times  cannot  satisfy  your  Reverence's  crav- 
ing, and  the  details  of  the  real  great  revolution  of  Eng- 
land which  is  actually  going  on  do  not  sufficiently  interest 
you,  I  send  you  a  page  or  two  of  random  speculations 
upon  matters  connected  with  the  literary  profession: 
they  were  suggested  by  reading  the  works  and  the  bi- 
ography of  a  literary  friend  of  ours,  lately  deceased,  and 
for  whom  every  person  who  knew  him  had  the  warmest 
and  sincerest  regard.  And  no  wonder.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  help  trusting  a  man  so  thoroughly  generous  and 
honest,  and  loving  one  who  was  so  perfectly  gay,  gentle, 
and  amiable. 

A  man  can't  enjoy  everything  in  the  world;  but  what 
delightful  gifts  and  qualities  are  these  to  have!  Not 
having  known  Blanchard  as  intimately  as  some  others 

322 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD  323 

did,  yet,  I  take  it,  he  had  in  his  Hfe  as  much  j)leasure  as 
falls  to  most  men;  the  kindest  friends,  the  most  affec- 
tionate family,  a  heart  to  enjoy  both;  and  a  career  not 
undistinguished,  which  I  hold  to  be  the  smallest  matter 
of  all.  But  we  have  a  cowardly  dislike,  or  compassion 
for,  the  fact  of  a  man  dying  poor.  Such  a  one  is  rich, 
bilious,  and  a  curmudgeon,  without  heart  or  stomach  to 
enjoy  his  money,  and  we  set  him  down  as  respectable: 
another  is  morose  or  passionate,  his  whole  view  of  life 
seen  bloodshot  through  passion,  or  jaundiced  through 
moroseness:  or  he  is  a  fool  who  can't  see,  or  feel,  or  enjoy 
anything  at  all,  with  no  ear  for  music,  no  eye  for  beauty, 
no  heart  for  love,  with  nothing  except  money:  we  meet 
such  people  every  day,  and  respect  them  somehow. 
That  donkev  browses  over  five  thousand  acres ;  that  mad- 
man's  bankers  come  bowing  him  out  to  his  carriage. 
You  fed  secretly  pleased  at  shooting  over  the  acres,  or 
driving  in  the  carriage.  At  any  rate,  nobody  thinks  of 
compassionating  their  owners.  We  are  a  race  of  flun- 
keys, and  keep  our  pity  for  the  poor. 

I  don't  mean  to  affix  the  plush  personally  upon  the 
kind  and  distinguished  gentleman  and  writer  who  has 
written  Blanchard's  INIemoir;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
is  couched  in  much  too  despondent  a  strain ;  that  the  lot 
of  the  hero  of  the  little  story  was  by  no  means  deplorable ; 
and  that  there  is  not  the  least  call  at  present  to  be  holding 
up  literary  men  as  martyrs.  Even  that  prevailing  senti- 
ment which  regrets  that  means  should  not  be  provided  for 
giving  them  leisure,  for  enabling  them  to  perfect  great 
works  in  retirement,  that  thev  should  waste  away  their 
strength  with  fugitive  literature,  &c.,  I  hold  to  be  often 
uncalled  for  and  dangerous.  I  believe,  if  most  men  of 
letters  were  to  be  pensioned,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  believe 


324  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

they  wouldn't  work  at  all ;  and  of  others,  that  the  labour 
which  is  to  answer  the  calls  of  the  day  is  the  one  quite  best 
suited  to  their  genius.  Suppose  Sir  Robert  Peel  were  to 
write  to  j^ou,  and  enclosing  a  cheque  for  20,000/.^  instruct 
you  to  pension  any  fifty  deserving  authors,  so  that  they 
might  have  leisure  to  retire  and  write  "  great "  works,  on 
whom  would  you  fix? 

People  in  the  big  book  interest,  too,  cry  out  against 
the  fashion  of  fugitive  literature,  and  no  wonder.  For 
instance, — 

The  Times  gave  an  extract  the  other  day  from  a  work 
by  one  Doctor  Cams,  physician  to  the  King  of  Saxony, 
who  attended  his  royal  master  on  his  recent  visit  to  Eng- 
land, and  has  written  a  book  concerning  the  journey. 
Ainong  other  London  lions,  the  illustrious  traveller  con- 
descended to  visit  one  of  the  largest  and  most  remarka- 
ble, certainly,  of  metropolitan  roarers — the  Times  print- 
ing-office ;  of  which,  the  Doctor,  in  his  capacity  of  a  man 
of  science,  gives  an  exceedingly  bad,  stupid,  and  blun- 
dering account. 

Carus  was  struck  with  "  disgust,"  he  says,  at  the  pro- 
digious size  of  the  paper,  and  at  the  thought  which  sug- 
gested itself  to  his  mind  from  this  enormity.  There  was 
as  much  printed  every  day  as  would  fill  a  thick  volume. 
It  required  ten  years  of  life  to  a  philosopher  to  write  a 
volume.  The  issuing  of  these  daily  tomes  was  unfair 
upon  philosophers,  who  were  put  out  of  the  market ;  and 
unfair  on  the  public,  who  were  made  to  receive  (and, 
worse  still,  to  get  a  relish  for)  crude  daily  specvilations, 
and  frivolous  ephemeral  news,  when  they  ought  to  be 
fed  and  educated  upon  stronger  and  simpler  diet. 

We  have  heard  this  outcry  a  hundred  times  from  the 
big-wig  body.     The  world  gives  up  a  lamentable  portion 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD  325 

of  its  time  to  fleeting  literature;  authors  who  might  be 
occupied  upon  great  works  fritter  away  their  lives  in 
producing  endless  hasty  sketches.  Kind,  w^ise,  and  good 
Doctor  Arnold  deplored  the  fatal  sympathy  which  the 
"  Pickwick  Papers  "  had  created  among  the  boys  of  his 
school;  and  it  is  a  fact  that  Punch  is  as  regularly  read 
among  the  boys  at  Eton  as  the  Latin  Grammar. 

Arguing  for  liberty  of  conscience  against  any  author- 
ity, however  great— against  Doctor  Arnold  himself,  who 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  greatest,  wisest,  and  best  of  men, 
that  has  appeared  for  eighteen  hundred  years;  let  us 
take  a  stand  at  once,  and  ask,  why  should  not  the  day 
have  its  literature  ?  Why  should  not  authors  make  light 
sketches?  Why  should  not  the  public  be  amused  daily 
or  frequently  by  kindly  fictions?  It  is  well  and  just  for 
Arnold  to  object.  Light  stories  of  Jingle  and  Tupman, 
and  Sam  Weller  quips  and  cranks,  must  have  come  with 
but  a  bad  grace  before  that  pure  and  lofty  soul.  The 
trivial  and  familiar  are  out  of  place  there ;  the  harmless 
joker  must  walk  away  abashed  from  such  a  presence,  as 
he  would  be  silent  and  hushed  in  a  cathedral.  But  all 
the  world  is  not  made  of  that  angelic  stuff.  From  his 
very  height  and  sublimity  of  virtue  he  could  but  look 
down  and  deplore  the  ways  of  small  men  beneath  him.  I 
mean,  seriously,  that  I  think  the  man  was  of  so  august 
and  sublime  a  nature,  that  he  was  not  a  fair  judge  of  us, 
or  of  the  ways  of  the  generality  of  mankind.  One  has 
seen  a  delicate  person  sicken  and  faint  at  the  smell  of  a 
flower;  it  does  not  follow  that  the  flower  was  not  sweet 
and  wholesome  in  consequence ;  and  I  hold  that  laughing 
and  honest  story-books  are  good,  against  all  the  doctors. 

Laughing  is  not  the  highest  occupation  of  a  man,  very 
certainly ;  or  the  power  of  creating  it  the  height  of  genius. 


326  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

I  am  not  going  to  argue  for  that.  No  more  is  the  black- 
ing of  boots  the  greatest  occupation.  But  it  is  done,  and 
well  and  honestly,  by  persons  ordained  to  that  calling  in 
life,  who  arrogate  to  themselves  (if  they  are  straight- 
forward and  worthy  shoeblacks)  no  especial  rank  or 
privilege  on  account  of  their  calling;  and  not  consider- 
ing boot-brushing  the  greatest  effort  of  earthly  genius, 
nevertheless  select  their  Day  and  Martin,  or  Warren,  to 
the  best  of  their  judgment;  polish  their  upper-leathers 
as  well  as  they  can ;  satisfy  their  patrons ;  and  earn  their 
fair  wage. 

I  have  chosen  the  unpolite  shoeblack  comparison,  not 
out  of  disrespect  to  the  trade  of  literature;  but  it  is  as 
good  a  craft  as  any  other  to  select.  In  some  way  or  other, 
for  daily  bread  and  hire,  almost  all  men  are  labouring 
daily.  Without  necessity  they  would  not  work  at  all,  or 
very  little,  probably.  In  some  instances  you  reap  Repu- 
tation along  with  Profit  from  your  labour,  but  Bread,  in 
the  main,  is  the  incentive.  Do  not  let  us  try  to  blink  this 
fact,  or  imagine  that  the  men  of  the  press  are  working  for 
their  honour  and  glory,  or  go  onward  impelled  by  an  ir- 
resistible afflatus  of  genius.  If  only  men  of  genius  were 
to  write.  Lord  helj)  us!  how  many  books  would  there  be? 
How  many  people  are  there  even  capable  of  appreciating 
genius  ?  Is  Mr.  Wakley's  or  Mr.  Hume's  opinion  about 
poetry  worth  much?  As  much  as  that  of  millions  of  peo- 
ple in  this  honest  stupid  empire;  and  they  have  a  right 
to  have  books  supplied  for  them  as  well  as  the  most  pol- 
ished and  accomplished  critics  have.  The  literary  man 
gets  his  bread  by  providing  goods  suited  to  the  consump- 
tion of  these.  This  man  of  letters  contributes  a  police- 
report;  that,  an  article  containing  some  downright  infor- 
mation; this  one,  as  an  editor,  abuses  Sir  Robert  Peel, 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD  327 

or  lauds  Lord  John  Russell,  or  vice  versa;  writing  to  a 
certain  class  who  coincide  in  his  views,  or  are  interested 
by  the  question  which  he  moots.  The  literary  character, 
let  us  hope  or  admit,  writes  quite  honestly;  but  no  man 
supposes  he  would  work  perpetually  but  for  money. 
And  as  for  immortality,  it  is  quite  beside  the  bargain.  Is 
it  reasonable  to  look  for  it,  or  to  pretend  that  you  are 
actuated  by  a  desire  to  attain  it  ?  Of  all  the  quill-drivers, 
how  many  have  ever  drawn  that  prodigious  prize  ?  Is  it 
fair  even  to  ask  that  many  should  ?  Out  of  a  regard  for 
poor  dear  posterity  and  men  of  letters  to  come,  let  us  be 
glad  that  the  great  immortality  number  comes  up  so 
rarely.  INIankind  would  have  no  time  otherwise,  and 
would  be  so  gorged  with  old  masterpieces,  that  they 
could  not  occupy  themselves  with  new,  and  future  lit- 
erary men  would  have  no  chance  of  a  livelihood. 

To  do  your  work  honestly,  to  amuse  and  instruct  your 
reader  of  to-day,  to  die  when  your  time  comes,  and  go 
hence  with  as  clean  a  breast  as  may  be ;  may  these  be  all 
yours  and  ours,  by  God's  will.  Let  us  be  content  with 
our  status  as  literary  craftsmen,  telling  the  truth  as  far  as 
may  be,  hitting  no  foul  blow,  condescending  to  no  servile 
puffery,  filling  not  a  very  lofty,  but  a  manly  and  honour- 
able part.  Nobodj'  says  that  Doctor  Locock  is  wasting 
his  time  because  he  rolls  about  daily  in  his  carriage,  and 
passes  hours  with  the  nobility  and  gentry,  his  patients, 
instead  of  being  in  his  study  wrapt  up  in  transcendental 
medical  meditation.  Nobody  accuses  Sir  Fitzroy  Kelly 
of  neglecting  his  genius  because  he  will  take  anybody's 
brief,  and  argue  it  in  court  for  money,  when  he  might 
sit  in  chambers  with  his  oak  sjDorted,  and  give  up  his  soul 
to  investigations  of  the  nature,  history,  and  improvement 
of  law.    There  is  no  question  but  that  either  of  these  emi- 


328  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

nent  persons,  by  profound  study,  might  increase  their 
knowledge  in  certain  branches  of  their  profession;  but 
in  the  meanwhile  the  practical  part  must  go  on — causes 
come  on  for  hearing,  and  ladies  lie  in,  and  someone  must 
be  there.  The  commodities  in  w^hich  the  lawyer  and  the 
doctor  deal  are  absolutely  required  by  the  public,  and 
liberally  paid  for;  every  day,  too,  the  public  requires 
more  literary  handicraft  done;  the  practitioner  in  that 
trade  gets  a  better  pay  and  place.  In  another  century, 
very  likely,  his  work  will  be  so  necessary  to  the  people, 
and  his  market  so  good,  that  his  prices  will  double  and 
treble ;  his  social  rank  rise ;  he  will  be  getting  what  they 
call  "  honours,"  and  dying  in  the  bosom  of  the  genteel. 
Our  calling  is  only  sneered  at  because  it  is  not  well  paid. 
The  world  has  no  other  criterion  for  respectability.  In 
Heaven's  name,  what  made  people  talk  of  setting  up  a 
statue  to  Sir  William  Follett?  What  had  he  done?  He 
had  made  300,000/.  What  has  George  IV.  done  that  he, 
too,  is  to  have  a  brazen  image?  He  was  an  exemplar  of 
no  greatness,  no  good  quality,  no  duty  in  life ;  but  a  type 
of  magnificence,  of  beautiful  coats,  carpets,  and  gigs, 
turtle-soup,  chandeliers,  cream-coloured  horses,  and  de- 
licious Maraschino, — all  these  good  things  he  expressed 
and  represented :  and  the  world,  respecting  them  beyond 
all  others,  raised  statues  to  "  the  first  gentleman  in  Eu- 
rope." Directly  the  men  of  letters  get  rich,  they  will 
come  in  for  their  share  of  honour  too ;  and  a  future  writer 
in  this  miscellany  may  be  getting  ten  guineas  where  we 
get  one,  and  dancing  at  Buckingham  Palace  while  you 
and  your  hvmible  servant,  dear  Padre  Francesco,  are 
glad  to  smoke  our  pipes  in  quiet  over  the  sanded  floor  of 
the  little  D  —  . 

But  the  happy  liomme  dc  Icttres,  whom  I  imagine  in 


LAMAN    BLANCHARD  329 

futurity  kicking  his  heels  vis-a-vis  to  a  duchess  in  some 
fandango  at  the  Court  of  her  jNIajesty's  grandchildren, 
will  be  in  reality  no  better  or  honester,  or  more  really  near 
fame,  than  the  quill-driver  of  the  present  day  with  his 
doubtful  position  and  small  gains.  Fame,  that  guerdon 
of  high  genius,  comes  quite  independent  of  Berkeley 
Square,  and  is  a  republican  institution.  Look  around  in 
our  own  day  among  the  holders  of  the  pen:  begin  (with- 
out naming  names,  for  that  is  odious)  and  count  on  your 
fingers  those  whom  you  will  back  in  the  race  for  immor- 
tality.   How  many  fingers  have  you  that  are  left  untold? 

It  is  an  invidious  question.     Alas!  dear ,  and  dear 

*  *,  and  dear  f  f,  you  who  think  you  are  safe,  there  is 
futurity,  and  limbo,  and  blackness  for  you,  beloved 
friends!  Cras  ingens  iterahimus  ccqiior:  there's  no  use 
denying  it,  or  shirking  the  fact ;  in  we  must  go,  and  dis- 
appear for  ever  and  ever. 

And  after  all,  what  is  this  Reputation,  the  cant  of  our 
trade,  the  goal  that  every  scribbling  penny-a-liner  de- 
murely pretends  that  he  is  hunting  after?  Why  should 
we  get  it  ?  Why  can't  we  do  without  it  ?  We  only  fancy 
we  want  it.  When  people  say  of  such  and  such  a  man 
who  is  dead,  "He  neglected  his  talents;  he  frittered 
away  in  fugitive  publications  time  and  genius,  which 
might  have  led  to  the  production  of  a  great  work; "  this 
is  the  gist  of  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  kind  and  affecting  bio- 
graphical notice  of  our  dear  friend  and  comrade  Laman 
Blanchard,  who  passed  away  so  melancholily  last  year. 

I  don't  know  anything  more  dissatisfactor}'^  and  ab- 
surd than  that  insane  test  of  friendship  which  has  been 
set  up  by  some  literar}^  men — viz.  admiration  of  their 
works.  Say  that  this  picture  is  bad,  or  that  poem  poor, 
or  that  article  stupid,  and  there  are  certain  authors  and 


330  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

artists  among  us  who  set  you  down  as  an  enemy  forth- 
with, or  look  upon  you  as  a  faux-frere.  What  is  there 
in  common  with  the  friend  and  his  work  of  art?  The 
picture  or  article  once  done  and  handed  over  to  the  pub- 
lic, is  the  latter's  property,  not  the  author's,  and  to  be 
estimated  according  to  its  honest  value;  and  so,  and 
without  malice,  I  question  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  state- 
ment about  Blanchard— viz.  that  he  would  have  been 
likely  to  produce  with  leisure,  and  under  favourable  cir- 
cumstances, a  work  of  the  highest  class.  I  think  his  edu- 
cation and  habits,  his  quick  easy  manner,  his  sparkling 
hidden  fun,  constant  tenderness,  and  brilliant  good-hu- 
mour were  best  employed  as  they  were.  At  any  rate  he 
had  a  duty,  much  more  imperative  upon  him  than  the 
preparation  of  questionable  great  works, — to  get  his 
family  their  dinner.  A  man  must  be  a  very  Great  man, 
indeed,  before  he  can  neglect  this  precaution. 

His  three  volumes  of  essays,  pleasant  and  often  bril- 
liant as  they  are,  give  no  idea  of  the  powers  of  the  author, 
or  even  of  his  natural  manner,  which,  as  I  thinlv,  was  a 
thousand  times  more  agreeable.  He  was  like  the  good 
little  child  in  the  fairy  tale,  his  mouth  dropped  out  all 
sorts  of  diamonds  and  rubies.  His  wit,  which  was  al- 
ways playing  and  frisking  about  the  company,  had  the 
wonderful  knack  of  never  hurting  anybodJ^  He  had 
the  most  singular  art  of  discovering  good  qualities  in 
people;  in  discoursing  of  which  the  kindly  little  fellow 
used  to  glow  and  kindle  up,  and  emphasize  with  the  most 
charming  energy.  Good-natured  actions  of  others,  good 
jokes,  favourite  verses  of  friends,  he  would  bring  out 
fondly,  whenever  they  met,  or  there  was  question  of 
them;  and  he  used  to  toss  and  dandle  their  sayings  or 
doings  about,  and  hand  them  round  to  the  company,  as 


LAMAN   BLANCHARD  331 

the  delightful  ]\Iiss  Slowboy  does  the  baby  in  the  last 
Christmas  Book.  What  was  better  than  wit  in  his  talk 
was,  that  it  was  so  genial.  He  enjoyed  thoroughly,  and 
chirped  over  his  wine  \\\W\  a  good-humour  that  could 
not  fail  to  be  infectious.  His  own  hospitality  was  de- 
lightful :  there  was  something  about  it  charmingly  brisk, 
simple,  and  kindly.  How  he  used  to  laugh !  As  I  write 
this,  what  a  number  of  pleasant  hearty  scenes  come  back ! 
One  can  hear  his  jolly,  clear  laughter;  and  see  his  keen, 
kind,  beaming  Jew  face,— a  mixture  of  INIendelssohn 
and  Voltaire. 

Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  account  of  him  will  be  read  by  all 
his  friends  with  pleasure,  and  by  the  world  as  a  not  un- 
curious  sj^ecimen  of  the  biography  of  a  literary  man. 
The  memoir  savours  a  little  too  much  of  the  funeral  ora- 
tion. It  might  have  been  a  little  more  particular  and 
familiar,  so  as  to  give  the  public  a  more  intimate  ac 
quaintance  with  one  of  the  honestest  and  kindest  of  men 
who  ever  lived  by  pen ;  and  yet,  after  a  long  and  friendly 
intercourse  with  Blanchard,  I  believe  the  praises  Sir 
Lj^tton  bestows  on  his  character  are  by  no  means  exag- 
gerated: it  is  only  the  style  in  which  they  are  given, 
which  is  a  little  too  funereally  encomiastic.  The  memoir 
begins  in  this  way,  a  pretty  and  touching  design  of  Mr. 
Kenny  Meadows  heading  the  biograj)hy: — 

"  To  most  of  those  who  have  mixed  generally  with  the  men 
who,  in  our  day,  have  chosen  hterature  as  their  profession,  the 
name  of  Laman  Blanchard  brings  recollections  of  peculiar  ten- 
derness and  regret.  Amidst  a  career  which  the  keenness  of  anx- 
ious rivalry  renders  a  sharp  probation  to  the  temper  and  the 
affections,  often  yet  more  embittered  by  that  strife  of  party,  of 
which,  in  a  Representative  Constitution,  few  men  of  letters  es- 
cape the  eager  passions  and  the  angry  prejudice — they  recall  the 


332  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

memory  of  a  competitor,  without  envy;  a  partisan,  without  gall; 
firm  as  the  firmest  in  the  maintenance  of  his  own  opinions ;  but 
gentle  as  the  gentlest  in  the  judgment  he  passed  on  others. 

"  Who,  among  our  London  brotherhood  of  letters,  does  not 
miss  that  simple  cheerfulness  —  that  inborn  and  exquisite  ur- 
banity— that  childlike  readiness  to  be  pleased  with  all — that 
happy  tendency  to  paneg^^rise  every  merit,  and  to  be  lenient  to 
every  fault?  Who  does  not  recall  that  acute  and  delicate  sensi- 
bility— so  easily  wounded,  and  therefore  so  careful  not  to  wound 
— which  seemed  to  infuse  a  certain  intellectual  fine  breeding,  of 
forbearance  and  sympathy,  into  every  society  where  it  insinuated 
its  gentle  way?  Who,  in  convivial  meetings,  does  not  miss,  and 
will  not  miss  for  ever,  the  sweetness  of  those  unpretending  talents 
— the  earnestness  of  that  honesty  which  seemed  unconscious  it 
was  worn  so  lightly — the  mild  influence  of  that  exuberant  kind- 
ness which  softened  the  acrimony  of  3^oung  disputants,  and  rec- 
onciled the  secret  animosities  of  jealous  rivals?  Yet  few  men  had 
experienced  more  to  sour  them  than  Laman  Blanchard,  or  had 
gone  more  resolutely  through  the  author's  hardening  ordeal  of 
narrow  circumstance,  of  daily  labour,  and  of  that  disappointment 
in  the  higher  aims  of  ambition,  which  must  almost  inevitably  be- 
fall those  who  retain  ideal  standards  of  excellence,  to  be  reached 
but  by  time  and  leisure,  and  who  are  yet  condemned  to  draw 
hourly  upon  unmatured  resources  for  the  practical  wants  of  life. 
To  have  been  engaged  from  boyhood  in  such  struggles,  and  to 
have  preserved,  undiminished,  generous  admiration  for  those 
more  fortunate,  and  untiring  love  for  his  own  noble  yet  thank- 
less calling ;  and  this  with  a  constitution  singularly  finely  strung, 
and  with  all  the  nervous  irritability  which  usually  accompanies 
the  indulgence  of  the  imagination ;  is  a  proof  of  the  rarest  kind 
of  strength,  depending  less  upon  a  power  purely  intellectual, 
than  upon  the  higher  and  more  beautiful  heroism  which  woman, 
and  such  men  alone  as  have  the  best  feelings  of  a  woman's  nature, 
take  from  instinctive  enthusiasm  for  what  is  great,  and  uncalcu- 
lating  faith  in  what  is  good. 

"  It  is,  regarded  thus,  that  the  character  of  Laman  Blanchard 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD  333 

assumes  an  interest  of  a  very  elevated  order.  He  was  a  choice 
and  worthy  example  of  the  professional  English  men  of  letters, 
in  our  day.  He  is  not  to  be  considered  in  the  light  of  the  man 
of  daring  and  turbulent  genius,  living  on  the  false  excitement  of 
vehement  calumny  and  uproarious  praise.  His  was  a  career  not 
indeed  obscure,  but  sufficiently  quiet  and  unnoticed  to  be  solaced 
with  little  of  the  pleasure  with  which,  in  aspirants  of  a  noisier 
fame,  gratified  and  not  ignoble  vanity  rewards  the  labour  and 
stimulates  the  hope.  For  more  than  twenty  years  he  toiled  on 
through  the  most  fatiguing  paths  of  literary  composition,  mostly 
in  periodicals,  often  anonymously' ;  pleasing  and  lightly  instruct- 
ing thousands,  but  gaining  none  of  the  prizes,  whether  of 
weighty  reputation  or  popular  renown,  which  more  fortunate 
chances,  or  more  pretending  modes  of  investing  talent,  have 
given  in  our  day  to  men  of  half  his  merits." 

Xot  a  feature  in  this  charming  character  is  flattered, 
as  far  as  I  know.  Did  the  subject  of  the  memoir  feel 
disappointment  in  the  higher  aims  of  ambition?  Was 
his  career  not  solaced  with  pleasure?  Was  his  noble 
calling  a  thankless  one?  I  have  said  before,  his  calling 
was  not  thankless;  his  career,  in  the  main,  pleasant;  his 
disappointment,  if  he  had  one  of  the  higher  aims  of  am- 
bition, one  that  might  not  uneasily  be  borne.  If  every 
man  is  disappointed  because  he  cannot  reach  supreme  ex- 
cellence, what  a  mad  misanthropical  world  ours  would  be ! 
Why  should  men  of  letters  aim  higher  than  they  can  hit, 
or  be  "  disappointed  "  with  the  share  of  brains  God  has 
given  them?  Nor  can  you  say  a  man's  career  is  unpleas- 
ant who  was  so  heartily  liked  and  appreciated  as  Blan- 
chard  was,  by  all  persons  of  high  intellect,  or  low,  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact.  He  had  to  bear  with  some, 
but  not  unbearable  poverty.  At  home  he  had  everything 
to  satisfy  his  affection :  abroad,  every  sympathy  and  con- 
sideration  met   this   universally   esteemed,   good   man. 


334  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Such  a  calling  as  his  is  not  thankless,  surely.  Away  with 
this  discontent  and  morbid  craving  for  renown !  A  man 
who  writes  (Tennyson's)  "  Ulysses,"  or  "  Comus,"  may 
put  in  his  claim  for  fame  if  you  will,  and  demand  and 
deserve  it:  but  it  requires  no  vast  power  of  intellect  to 
write  most  sets  of  words,  and  have  them  printed  in  a 
book: — To  write  this  article,  for  instance,  or  the  last 
novel,  pamphlet,  book  of  travels.  Most  men  with  a  de- 
cent education  and  practice  of  the  pen  could  go  and  do 
the  like,  were  they  so  professionally  urged.  Let  such 
fall  into  the  rank  and  file,  and  shoulder  their  weapons, 
and  load  and  fire  cheerfully.  An  every-day  writer  has 
no  more  right  to  repine  because  he  loses  the  great  prizes, 
and  can't  write  like  Shakspeare,  than  he  has  to  be  en- 
vious of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  or  Wellington,  or  King  Hud- 
son, or  Taglioni.  Because  the  sun  shines  above,  is  a  man 
to  warm  himself  and  admire;  or  to  despond  because  he 
can't  in  his  person  flare  up  like  the  sun  ?  I  don't  believe 
that  Blanchard  was  by  any  means  an  amateur  martyr, 
but  was,  generally  sj^eaking,  very  decently  satisfied  with 
his  condition. 

Here  is  the  account  of  his  early  history — a  curious  and 
interesting  one: — 

"  Samuel  Laman  Blanchard  was  born  of  respectable  parents 
in  the  middle  class  at  Great  Yarmouth,  on  the  15th  of  May,  1803. 
His  mother's  maiden  name  was  Mary  Laman.  She  married  first 
Mr.  Cowcll,  at  Saint  John's  Church,  Bermondsey,  about  the  year 
1796;  he  died  in  the  following  year.  In  1799,  she  was  married 
again,  to  Samuel  Blancliard,  by  whom  she  had  seven  children, 
but  only  one  son,  the  third  child,  christened  Samuel  Laman. 

"  In  1805,  Mr.  Blanchard  (the  father)  appears  to  have  re- 
moved to  the  metropolis,  and  to  have  settled  in  Southwark  as  a 
])ainter  and  glazier.  He  was  enabled  to  give  his  boy  a  good  edu- 
cation—  an  education,  indeed,  of  that  kind  which  could  not  but 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD  835 

unfit  young  Laman  for  the  calling  of  his  father ;  for  it  developed 
the  abilities  and  bestowed  the  learning,  which  may  be  said  to  lift 
a  youth  morally  out  of  trade,  and  to  refine  him  at  once  into  a 
gentleman.     At  six  years  old  he  was  entered  a  scholar  of  Saint 
Olave's  School,  then  under  the  direction  of  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Blenkorm.     He  became  the  head  Latin  scholar,  and  gained  the 
chief  prize  in  each  of  the  last  three  years  he  remained  at  the 
academy.    When  he  left,  it  was  the  wish  of  the  master  and  trustees 
that  he  should  be  sent  to  College,  one  boy  being  annually  selected 
from  the  pupils,  to  be  maintained  at  the  University,   for  the 
freshman's  year,  free  of  expense ;  for  the  charges  of  the  two  re- 
maining years  the  parents  were  to  provide.     So  strong,  however, 
were  the  hopes  of  the  master  for  his  promising  pupil,  that  the 
trustees  of  the  school  consented  to  depart  from  their  ordinary 
practice,  and  offered  to  defray  the  collegiate  expenses  for  two 
years.     Unfortunately,  the  offer  was  not  accepted.     No  wonder 
that  poor  Laman  regretted  in  after  life  the  loss  of  this  golden 
opportunity.    The  advantages  of  a  University  career  to  a  young 
man  in  his  position,  with  talents  and  application,  but  without 
interest,  birth,  and  fortune,  are  incalculable.     The  pecuniary  in- 
dependence afforded  by  the  scholarship  and  the  fellowship  is  in 
itself  no  despicable  prospect ;  but  the  benefits  which  distinction, 
fairly  won  at  those  noble  and  unrivalled  institutions,  confers,  are 
the  greatest  where  least  obvious:  they  tend  usually  to  bind  the 
vagueness  of  youthful  ambition  to  the  secure  reliance  on  some 
professional   career,   in   which  they   smooth   the   difficulties   and 
abridge  the  novitiate.     Even  in  literature  a  College  education 
not  only  tends  to  refine  the  taste,  but  to  propitiate  the  public. 
And  in  all  the  many  walks  of  practical  and  public  life,  the  hon- 
ours  gained   at   the  University   never   fail   to   find   well-wishers 
amongst  powerful  contemporaries,  and  to  create   generous  in- 
terest in  the  fortunes  of  the  aspirant. 

"  But  my  poor  friend  was  not  destined  to  have  one  obstacle 
smoothed  away  from  his  weary  path.^     With  the  natural  refine- 

^  "  The  elder  Blanchard  is  not  to  be  blamed   for  voluntarily  depriving  his 
son  of  the  advantages  proffered  by  the  liberal  trustees  of  Saint  Olave^s;  it 


386  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

ment  of  his  disposition,  and  the  fatal  cultivation  of  his  intellec- 
tual susceptibilities,  he  was  placed  at  once  in  a  situation  which  it 
was  impossible  that  he  could  fill  with  steadiness  and  zeal.  Fresh 
from  classical  studies,  and  his  emulation  warmed  by  early  praise 
and  schoolboy  triumph,  he  was  transferred  to  the  drudgery  of  a 
desk  in  the  office  of  Mr.  Charles  Pearson,  a  proctor  in  Doctors' 
Commons.  The  result  was  inevitable ;  his  mind,  by  a  natural  re- 
action, betook  itself  to  the  pursuits  most  hostile  to  such  a  career. 
Before  this,  even  from  the  age  of  thirteen,  he  had  trifled  with 
the  Muses ;  he  now  conceived  in  good  earnest  the  more  perilous 
passion  for  the  stage. 

"  Barry  Cornwall's  '  Dramatic  Scenes  '  were  published  about 
this  time — they  exercised  considerable  influence  over  the  taste  and 
aspirations  of  young  Blanchard — and  many  dramatic  sketches 
of  brilliant  promise,  bearing  his  initials,  S.  L.  B.,  appeared  in  a 
periodical  work  existing  at  that  period  called  The  Drama.  In 
them,  though  the  conception  and  general  treatment  are  borrowed 
from  Barry  Cornwall,  the  style  and  rhythm  are  rather  modelled 
on  the  peculiarities  of  Byron.  Their  promise  is  not  the  less  for 
the  imitation  they  betray.  The  very  characteristic  of  genius  is  to 
be  imitative — first  of  authors,  then  of  nature.  Books  lead  us  to 
fancy  feelings  that  are  not  yet  genuine.  Experience  is  necessary 
to  record  those  which  colour  our  own  existence :  and  the  style  only 
becomes  original  in  proportion  as  the  sentiment  it  expresses  is 
sincere.  More  touching,  therefore,  than  these  '  Dramatic 
Sketches,'  was  a  lyrical  effusion  on  the  death  of  Sidney  Ireland, 
a  young  friend  to  whom  he  was  warmly  attached,  and  over  whose 
memory,  for  years  afterwards,  he  often  shed  tears.  He  named  his 
eldest  son  after  that  early  friend.  At  this  period,  Mr.  Douglas 
Jerrold  had  written  three  volumes  of  Moral  Philosophy,  and  Mr. 
Buckstone,  the  celebrated  comedian,  volunteered  to  copy  the  work 
for  the  juvenile  moralist.  On  arriving  at  any  passage  that  struck 
his  fancy,  Mr.  Buckstone  communicated  his  dcliffht  to  his  friend 

appears  from  a  oomniiinioation  by  Mr.  Keymer  (hrotlier-iii-law  to  Laman 
Blanchard) — that  the  cireiiinstaiices  of  the  family  at  that  time  were  not 
such  as  to  meet  the  necessary  expenses  of  a  student — even  for  tlie  last  year 
of  his  residence  at  the  University." 


LAMAN  BLAXCHARD  837 

Blanchard,  and  tlie  emulation  thus  excited  tended  more  and  more 
to  sharpen  the  poet's  distaste  to  all  avocations  incompatible  with 
literature.  Anxious,  in  the  first  instance,  to  escape  from  depen- 
dence on  his  father  (  who  was  now  urgent  that  he  should  leave  the 
proctor's  desk  for  the  still  more  ungenial  mechanism  of  the  pa- 
ternal trade),  he  meditated  the  best  of  all  preparatives  to  dra- 
matic excellence;  viz.  a  practical  acquaintance  with  the  stage 
itself:  he  resolved  to  become  an  actor.  Few  indeed  are  they  in 
this  country  who  have  ever  succeeded  eminently  in  the  literature 
of  the  stage,  who  have  not  either  trod  its  boards,  or  lived  habitu- 
ally in  its  atmosphere.  Blanchard  obtained  an  interview  with 
Mr.  Plenry  Johnston,  the  actor,  and  recited,  in  his  presence,  pas- 
sages from  Glover's  '  Leonidas.'  He  read  admirably— his  elocu- 
tion was  faultless — his  feeling  exquisite;  Mr.  Johnston  was  de- 
lighted with  his  powers,  but  he  had  experience  and  wisdom  to 
cool  his  professional  enthusiasm,  and  he  earnestly  advised  the 
aspirant  not  to  think  of  the  stage.  He  drew  such  a  picture  of  the 
hazards  of  success  — the  obstacles  to  a  position  — the  precarious- 
ness  even  of  a  subsistence,  that  the  poor  boy's  heart  sunk  within 
him.  He  was  about  to  resign  himself  to  obscurity  and  trade, 
when  he  suddenly  fell  in  with  the  manager  of  the  Margate  Thea- 
tre ;  this  gentleman  proposed  to  enrol  him  in  his  own  troop,  and 
the  proposal  was  eagerly  accepted, in  spite  of  the  warnings  of  Mr. 
Henry  Johnston.  'A  week,'  says  Mr.  Buckstone  (to  whom  I  am 
indebted  for  these  particulars, and  whose  words  I  now  quote), 'was 
sufficient  to  disgust  him  with  the  beggary  and  drudgery  of  the 
country  player's  life ;  and  as  there  were  no  "  Harlequins  "  steam- 
ing it  from  Margate  to  London  Bridge  at  that  day,  he  performed 
his  journey  back  on  foot,  having,  on  reaching  Rochester,  but  his 
last  shilling — the  poet's  veritable  last  shilling— in  his  pocket. 

"  'At  that  time  a  circumstance  occurred,  which  my  poor 
friend's  fate  has  naturally  brought  to  my  recollection.  He  came 
to  me  late  one  evening,  in  a  state  of  great  excitement ;  informed 
me  that  his  father  had  turned  him  out  of  doors ;  that  he  was 
utterly  hopeless  and  wretched,  and  was  resolved  to  destroy  him- 
self.    I  used  my  best  endeavours  to   console  him,   to  lead   his 


338  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

thoughts  to  the  future,  and  hope  in  what  chance  and  persever- 
ance might  effect  for  him.  Our  discourse  took  a  liveher  turn ; 
and  after  making  up  a  bed  on  a  sofa  in  my  own  room,  I  retired 
to  rest.  I  soon  slept  soundly,  but  was  awakened  by  hearing  a 
footstep  descending  the  stairs.  I  looked  towards  the  sofa,  and 
discovered  he  had  left  it ;  I  heard  the  street  door  close ;  I  in- 
stantly hurried  on  my  clothes,  and  followed  him ;  I  called  to  him, 
but  received  no  answer ;  I  ran  till  I  saw  him  in  the  distance  also 
running;  I  again  called  his  name;  I  implored  him  to  stop,  but 
he  would  not  answer  me.  Still  continuing  his  pace,  I  became 
alarmed,  and  doubled  my  speed.  I  came  up  with  him  near  to 
Westminster  Bridge;  he  was  hurrying  to  the  steps  leading  to 
the  river ;  I  seized  him ;  he  threatened  to  strike  me  if  I  did  not 
release  him ;  I  called  for  the  watch ;  I  entreated  him  to  return ; 
he  became  more  pacified,  but  still  seemed  anxious  to  escape  from 
me.  By  entreaties ;  by  every  means  of  persuasion  I  could  think 
of;  by  threats  to  call  for  help,  I  succeeded  in  taking  him  back. 
The  next  day  he  was  more  composed,  but  I  believe  rarely  resided 
with  his  father  after  that  time.  Necessity  compelled  him  to  do 
something  for  a  livelihood,  and  in  time  he  became  a  reader  in  the 
office  of  the  Messrs.  Bayliss,  in  Fleet  Street.  By  that  employ, 
joined  to  frequent  contributions  to  the  Monthly  Magazine,  at 
that  time  published  by  them,  he  obtained  a  tolerable  competence. 
"  '  Blanchard  and  Jerrold  had  serious  thoughts  of  joining 
Lord  Byron  in  Greece ;  they  were  to  become  warriors,  and  assist 
the  poet  in  the  liberation  of  the  classic  land.  Many  a  nightly 
wandering  found  them  discussing  their  project.  In  the  midst  of 
one  of  these  discussions  they  were  caught  in  a  shower  of  rain,  and 
sought  shelter  under  a  gateway.  The  rain  continued;  when 
their  patience  becoming  exhausted,  Blanchard,  buttoning  up  his 
coat,  exclaimed,  "  Come  on,  Jerrold !  what  use  shall  we  be  to  the 
Greeks  if  we  stand  up  for  a  shower  of  rain.''  "  So  they  walked 
home  and  were  heroically  wet  through.'  " 

It  would  have  been  worth  while  to  tell  this  tale  more 
fully;  not  to  envelop  the  chief  personage  in  fine  words. 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD  839 

as  statuaries  do  their  sitters  in  Roman  togas,  and,  mak- 
ing them  assume  the  heroic-conventional  look,  take  away 
from  them  that  infinitely  more  interesting  one  which  Na- 
ture gave  them.  It  would  have  been  well  if  we  could 
have  had  this  stirring  little  story  in  detail.  The  j^oung 
fellow,  forced  to  the  proctor's  desk,  quite  angry  with  the 
drudgery,  theatre-stricken,  poetry -stricken,  writing  dra- 
matic sketches  in  Barry  CornwalFs  manner,  spouting 
"  Leonidas  "  before  a  manager,  driven  aw  ay  starving  from 
home,  and,  penniless  and  full  of  romance,  courting  his 
beautiful  young  wife.  ''Come  on,  Jcrrold!  what  use  shall 
we  be  to  the  Greeks  if  we  stand  up  for  a  shower  of  rain?  " 
How  the  native  humour  breaks  out  of  the  man !  Those 
who  knew  them  can  fanc)^  the  effect  of  such  a  pair  of 
warriors  steering  the  Greek  fire-ships,  or  manning  the 
breach  at  Missolonghi.  Then  there  comes  that  pathetic 
little  outbreak  of  despair,  when  the  poor  young  fellow  is 
nearly  giving  up ;  his  father  banishes  him,  no  one  will  buy 
his  poetry,  he  has  no  chance  on  his  darling  theatre,  no 
chance  of  the  wife  that  he  is  longing  for.  Why  not 
finish  with  life  at  once?  He  has  read  "Werther,"  and 
can  understand  suicide.    "  None,"  he  says,  in  a  sonnet,— 

"  None,  not  the  hoariest  sage,  may  tell  of  all 
The  strong  heart  struggles  with  before  it  fall." 

If  Respectability  wanted  to  point  a  moral,  isn't  there 
one  here?  Eschew  poetry,  avoid  the  theatre,  stick  to 
your  business,  do  not  read  German  novels,  do  not  marry 
at  twenty.  All  these  injunctions  seem  to  hang  naturally 
on  the  stor5^ 

And  yet  the  young  poet  marries  at  twenty,  in  the 
teeth  of  poverty  and  experience;  labours  away,  not  un- 


340  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

successfully,  puts  Pegasus  into  harness,  rises  in  social 
rank  and  public  estimation,  brings  up  happily  round  him 
an  affectionate  family,  gets  for  himself  a  circle  of  the 
warmest  friends,  and  thus  carries  on  for  twenty  years, 
when  a  providential  calamity  visits  him  and  the  poor 
wife  almost  together,  and  removes  them  both. 

In  the  beginning  of  1844,  ]Mrs.  Blanchard,  his  affec- 
tionate wife  and  the  excellent  mother  of  his  children, 
was  attacked  with  paralysis,  which  impaired  her  mind 
and  terminated  fatally  at  the  end  of  the  year.  Her 
husband  was  constantly  Avith  her,  occupied  by  her  side, 
whilst  watching  her  distressing  malady,  in  his  daily  task 
of  literary  business.  Her  illness  had  the  severest  effect 
uj^on  him.  He,  too,  was  attacked  with  partial  paralysis 
and  congestion  of  the  brain,  during  which  first  seizure 
his  wife  died.  The  rest  of  the  storv  was  told  in  all  the 
newspapers  of  the  beginning  of  last  year.  Rallying 
partially  from  his  fever  at  times,  a  sudden  catastrophe 
overwhelmed  him.  On  the  night  of  the  14th  February, 
in  a  gust  of  delirium,  having  his  little  boy  in  bed  by  his 
side,  and  having  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  but  a  short  time 
before,  he  sprang  out  of  bed  in  the  absence  of  his  nurse 
(whom  he  had  besought  not  to  leave  him) ,  and  made  away 
with  himself  with  a  ^azor.  He  was  no  more  guilty  in  his 
death  than  a  man  who  is  murdered  by  a  madman,  or 
who  dies  of  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel.  In  his  last 
prayer  he  asked  to  be  forgiven,  as  he  in  his  whole  heart 
forgave  others;  and  not  to  be  led  into  that  irresistible 
temptation  under  which  it  pleased  Heaven  that  the  poor 
wandering  spirit  should  succumb. 

At  the  very  moment  of  his  death  his  friends  were  mak- 
ing the  kindest  and  most  generous  exertions  in  his  be- 
half.    Such  a  noble,  loving,  and  generous  creature  is 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD  841 

never  without  such.  The  world,  it  is  pleasant  to  think, 
is  always  a  good  and  gentle  world  to  the  gentle  and  good, 
and  reflects  the  benevolence  with  which  they  regard  it. 
This  memoir  contains  an  aiFecting  letter  from  the  poor 
fellow  himself,  which  indicates  Sir  Edward  Bulwer's 
admirable  and  delicate  generosity  tow-ards  him.  "  I 
bless  and  thank  you  always,"  writes  the  kindly  and  af- 
fectionate soul,  to  another  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Forster. 
There  were  other  friends,  such  as  ^Ir.  Fonblanque,  ^Ir. 
Ainsworth,  with  whom  he  was  connected  in  literary  la- 
bour, who  were  not  less  eager  to  serve  and  befriend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dead,  a  number  of  other  persons 
came  forward  to  provide  means  for  the  maintenance  of 
his  orphan  family.  INIessrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  took  one 
son  into  their  publishing-house,  another  was  provided 
for  in  a  merchant's  house  in  the  Citv,  the  other  is  of  an 
age  and  has  the  talents  to  follow  and  succeed  in  his 
father's  profession.  Mr.  Colburn  and  Mr.  Ainsworth 
gave  up  their  copyrights  of  his  Essays,  which  are  now 
printed  in  three  handsome  volumes,  for  the  benefit  of  his 
children. 

Out  of  Blanchard's  life  (except  from  the  melancholy 
end,  w^hich  is  quite  apart  from  it)  there  is  surely  no 
ground  for  drawing  charges  against  the  public  of  neg- 
lecting literature.  His  career,  untimely  concluded,  is 
in  the  main  a  successful  one.  In  truth,  I  don't  see  how 
the  aid  or  interposition  of  Government  could  in  any  way 
have  greatly  benefited  him,  or  how  it  was  even  called 
upon  to  do  so.  It  does  not  follow  that  a  man  w^ould 
produce  a  great  work  even  if  he  had  leisure.  Squire 
Shakspeare  of  Stratford,  with  his  lands  and  rents,  and 
his  arms  over  his  porch,  was  not  the  working  Shaks- 
peare; and  indolence  (or  contemplation,  if  you  like)  is 


842  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

no  unusual  quality  in  the  literary  man.  Of  all  the 
squires  who  have  had  acres  and  rents,  all  the  holders  of 
lucky  easy  Government  places,  how  many  have  written 
books,  and  of  what  worth  are  they  ?  There  are  some  per- 
sons whom  Government,  having  a  want  of,  employs  and 
pays — barristers,  diplomatists,  soldiers,  and  the  like;  but 
it  doesn't  want  poetry,  and  can  do  without  tragedies. 
Let  men  of  letters  stand  for  themselves.  Every  day 
enlarges  their  market,  and  multiplies  their  clients.  The 
most  skilful  and  successful  among  the  cultivators  of  light 
literature  have  such  a  hold  upon  the  public  feelings,  and 
awaken  such  a  sympathy,  as  men  of  the  class  never  en- 
joyed until  now:  men  of  science  and  learning,  who  aim 
at  other  distinction,  get  it;  and  in  spite  of  Dr.  Carus's 
disgust,  I  believe  there  was  never  a  time  when  so  much 
of  the  practically  useful  was  written  and  read,  and  every 
branch  of  book-making  pursued,  with  an  interest  so 
eager. 

But  I  must  conclude.  My  letter  has  swelled  beyond 
the  proper  size  of  letters,  and  you  are  craving  for  news : 
have  you  not  to-day's  Times'  battle  of  Ferozeshah? 
Farewell. 

M.  A.  T. 

{Fraser^s  Magazine,  March  1846.) 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES 

A  LETTER   FROM    MICHAEL   ANGELO   TITMARSH,    ESQUIRE, 

TO  MONSIEUR  ANATOLE  VICTOR   ISIDOR    HYACINTHE 

ACHILLE   HERCULE  DE   BRICABRAC,   PEINTRE 

D'hISTOIRE,    rue    MOUFFETARD,  a  PARIS 

Lord's  Hotel,  New  Street,  Covent  Garden: 
Tuesday,  15th  May. 

I  PROPOSE  to  be  both  learned  and  pleasant  in  my  re- 
marks upon  the  exhibitions  here ;  for  I  know,  my  dear 
Bricabrac,  that  it  is  your  intention  to  translate  this  let- 
ter into  French,  for  the  benefit  of  some  of  your  country- 
men, who  are  anxious  about  the  progress  of  the  fine  arts 
— when  I  say  some,  I  mean  all,  for,  thanks  to  your  Gov- 
ernment patronage,  your  magnificent  public  galleries, 
and,  above  all,  your  delicious  sky  and  sunshine,  there  is 
not  a  scavenger  in  your  nation  who  has  not  a  feeling  for 
the  beauty  of  Nature,  which  is,  my  dear  Anatole,  neither 
more  nor  less  than  Art. 

You  know  nothing  about  art  in  this  country — almost 
as  little  as  we  know  of  French  art.  One  Gustave 
Planche,  who  makes  visits  to  London,  and  writes  ac- 
counts of  pictures  in  your  reviews,  is,  believe  me,  an  im- 
postor. I  do  not  mean  a  private  impostor,  for  I  know 
not  whether  Planche  is  a  real  or  assumed  name,  but  sim- 
ply a  quack  on  matters  of  art.  Depend  on  it,  my  dear 
young  friend,  that  there  is  nobody  like  Titmarsh:  you 

343 


344  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

will  learn  more  about  the  arts  in  England  from  this  let- 
ter than  from  anything  in  or  out  of  print. 

Well,  then,  every  year,  at  the  commencement  of  this 
blessed  month  of  May,  wide  open  the  doors  of  three  pic- 
ture galleries,  in  which  figure  all  the  works  of  genius 
which  our  brother  artists  have  produced  during  the  whole 
year.  I  wish  you  could  see  my  historical  picture  of 
"  Heliogabalus  in  the  Ruins  of  Carthage,"  or  the  full- 
length  of  Sir  Samuel  Hicks  and  his  Lady,— sitting  in  a 
garden  light.  Lady  H.  reading  the  "  Book  of  Beauty," 
Sir  Samuel  catching  a  butterfly  which  is  settling  on  a 
flower-pot.  This,  however,  is  all  egotism.  I  am  not 
going  to  speak  of  my  works,  which  are  pretty  well  known 
in  Paris  already,  as  I  flatter  myself,  but  of  other  artists 
—some  of  them  men  of  merit— as  well  as  myself. 

Let  us  commence,  then,  with  the  commencement— the 
Royal  Academy.  That  is  held  in  one  wing  of  a  little 
building  like  a  gin-shop,  which  is  near  St.  Martin's 
Church.  In  the  other  wing  is  our  National  Gallery.  As 
for  the  building,  you  must  not  take  that  as  a  specimen 
of  our  skill  in  the  fine  arts ;  come  down  the  Seven  Dials, 
and  I  will  show  you  many  modern  structures  of  which 
the  architect  deserves  far  higher  credit. 

But,  bad  as  the  place  is— a  pigmy  abortion,  in  heu  of 
a  noble  monument  to  the  greatest  school  of  painting  in 
the  greatest  country  of  the  modern  world  (you  may  be 
angry,  but  I'm  right  in  hotli  cases)  —bad  as  the  outside 
is,  the  interior,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  marvellously 
pretty,  and  convenient  for  the  reception  and  exhibition 
of  the  pictures  it  will  hold.  Since  the  old  pictures  have 
got  their  new  gallery,  and  their  new  scouring,  one  hardly 
knows  them.  O  Ferdinand,  Ferdinand,  that  is  a  treat, 
that  National  Gallery,  and  no  mistake!  I  shall  write  to 
you  fourteen  or  fifteen  long  letters  about  it  some  day  or 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES  845 

other.  The  apartment  devoted  to  the  Academy  exhib- 
ition is  equally  commodious :  a  small  room  for  miniatures 
and  aquarelles,  another  for  architectural  drawings,  and 
three  saloons  for  pictures— all  very  small,  but  well 
lighted  and  neat ;  no  interminable  jjassage,  like  your  five 
hundred  yards  at  the  Louvre,  with  a  slippery  floor, 
and  tiresome  straggling  cross-lights.  Let  us  buy  a  cata- 
logue, and  walk  straight  into  the  gallery,  however:  —  we 
have  been  a  long  time  talking,  de  omnibus  rebus,  at  the 
door. 

Look,  my  dear  Isidor,  at  the  first  names  in  the  cata- 
logue, and  thank  your  stars  for  being  in  such  good  com- 
pany. Bless  us  and  save  us,  what  a  power  of  knights  is 
here ! 

Sir  William  Beechey. 

Sir  Martin  Shee. 

Sir  Da\'id  Wilkie. 

Sir  Augustus  Callcott. 

Sir  W.  J.  Newton. 

Sir  Geoffrey  Wyattville. 

Sir  Francis  Chantrey. 

Sir  Richard  Westmacott. 

Sir  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh— 
not  yet,  that  is ;  but  I  shall  be,  in  course,  when  our  little 
liege  lady— Heaven  bless  her!— has  seen  my  portrait  of 
Sir  Sam  and  Lady  Hicks. 

If  all  these  gentlemen  in  the  list  of  Academicians  and 
Associates  are  to  have  titles  of  some  sort  or  other,  I 
should  propose: — 

1.  Baron  Briggs.  (At  the  very  least,  he  is  out  and 
out  the  best  portrait-painter  of  the  set.) 

2.  Daniel,  Prince  Maclise.  (His  Royal  High- 
ness's  pictures  place  him  very  near  to  the  throne  indeed.) 

3.  Edwin,  Earl  of  Landseer. 


S46  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

4.  The  Lord  Charles  Landseer. 

5.  The  Duke  of  Etty. 

6.  Ai'chbishop  Eastlake. 

7.  His  Majesty  KING  MULREADY. 

King  Muh-eady,  I  repeat,  in  double  capitals;  for,  if 
this  man  has  not  the  crowning  picture  of  the  exhibition, 
I  am  no  better  than  a  Dutchman.  His  picture  repre- 
sents the  "  Seven  Ages,"  as  described  by  a  poet  whom 
you  have  heard  of— one  Shakspeare,  a  Warwickshire 
man:  and  there  they  are,  all  together;  the  portly  justice 
and  the  quarrelsome  soldier ;  the  lover  leaning  apart,  and 
whispering  sweet  things  in  his  pretty  mistress's  ear;  the 
baby  hanging  on  her  gentle  mother's  bosom ;  the  school- 
boy, rosy  and  lazy ;  the  old  man  crabbed  and  stingy ;  and 
the  old  old  man  of  all,  sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  ears, 
sans  everything — but  why  describe  them?  You  will 
find  the  thing  better  done  in  Shakspeare,  or  possibly 
translated  by  some  of  your  Frenchmen.  I  can't  say 
much  about  the  drawing  of  this  picture,  for  here  and 
there  are  some  queer-looking  limbs;  but — oh,  Anatolel 
— the  intention  is  god-like.  Not  one  of  those  figures  but 
has  a  grace  and  a  soul  of  his  own :  no  conventional  copies 
of  the  stony  antique ;  no  distorted  caricatures,  like  those 
of  your  "  classiques,"  David,  Girodet,  and  Co.  (the  im- 
postors!)—but  such  expressions  as  a  great  poet  would 
draw,  who  thinks  profoundly  and  truly,  and  never  for- 
gets (he  could  not  if  he  would)  grace  and  beauty  withal. 
The  colour  and  manner  of  this  noble  picture  are  neither 
of  the  Venetian  school,  nor  the  Florentine,  nor  the  Eng- 
lish, but  of  the  Mulready  school.  Ah !  my  dear  Floridor ! 
I  wish  that  you  and  I,  ere  we  die,  may  have  erected  such  a 
beautiful  monument  to  hallow  and  perpetuate  our 
names.    Our  children— my  boy,  Sebastian  Piombo  Tit- 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES  347 

marsh— will  see  this  picture  in  his  old  age,  hanging  by 
the  side  of  the  RafFaelles  in  our  National  Gallery.  I 
sometimes  fancy,  in  the  presence  of  such  works  of  genius 
as  this,  that  my  i^icture  of  Sir  Sam  and  Lady  Hicks  is 
but  a  magnificent  error  after  all,  and  that  it  will  die 
away,  and  be  forgotten. 

To  this,  then,  of  the  whole  gallery,  I  accord  the  palm, 
and  cannot  refrain  from  making  a  little  sketch,  illus- 
trative of  my  feelings. 

I  have  done  everything,  you  see,  very  accurately,  ex- 
cept Mr.  INIulready's  face ;  for,  to  say  truth,  I  never  saw 
that  gentleman,  and  have  no  idea  of  his  personal  appear- 
ance. 


TTTMARSH   PLACING   THE    LAUREL-WREATH    ON   THE    BROWS    OF   MULREADY 

Near  to  "  All  the  world's  a  stage  "  is  a  charming  pic- 
ture, by  Archbishop  Eastlake;  so  denominated  by  me, 
because  the  rank  is  very  respectable,  and  because  there 
is  a  certain  purity  and  religious  feeling  in  all  Mr.  East- 
lake  does,  which  eminently  entitles  him  to  the  honours 
of  the  prelacy.  In  this  picture,  Gaston  de  Foix  (he 
whom  Titian  painted,  his  mistress  buckling  on  his  ar- 
mour) is  parting  from  his  mistress.  A  fair  peaceful 
garden  is  round  about  them;  and  here  his  lady  sits  and 
cHngs  to  him,  as  though  she  would  cling  for  ever.    But, 


348  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

look!  yonder  stands  the  page  and  the  horse  pawing;  and, 
beyond  the  wall  which  bounds  the  quiet  garden  and 
flowers,  you  see  the  spears  and  pennons  of  knights,  the 
banners  of  King  Louis  and  De  Foix,  "  the  thunderbolt 
of  Italy."  Long  shining  rows  of  steel-clad  men  are 
marching  stately  by;  and  with  them  must  ride  Count 
Gaston — to  conquer  and  die  at  Ravenna.  You  can  read 
his  history,  my  dear  friend,  in  Lacretelle,  or  Brantome; 
only,  perhaps,  not  so  well  expressed  as  it  has  just  been 
by  me. 

Yonder  is  Sir  David  Wilkie's  grand  picture,  "  Queen 
Victoria  holding  her  First  Council."  A  marvellous 
painting,  in  which  one  admires  the  exquisite  richness  of 
the  colour,  the  breadth  of  light  and  shadow,  the  graceful 
dignity  and  beauty  of  the  principal  figure,  and  the  ex- 
traordinary skill  with  which  all  thv  figures  have  been 
grouped,  so  as  to  produce  a  grand  and  simple  effect. 
What  can  one  say  more,  but  admire  the  artist  who  has 
made,  out  of  such  unpoetical  materials  as  a  table  of  red 
cloth,  and  fifty  unoccupied  middle-aged  gentlemen,  a 
beautiful  and  interesting  picture  ?  Sir  David  has  a  charm- 
ing portrait,  too,  of  Mrs.  IMaberly,  in  dark  crimson  vel- 
vet, and  delicate  white  hat  and  feathers;  a  marvel  of 
colour,  though  somewhat  askew  in  the  drawing. 

The  Earl  of  liandseer's  best  picture,  to  my  thinking, 
is  that  which  represents  her  INIajesty's  favourite  dogs 
and  parrot.  He  has,  in  painting,  an  absolute  mastery 
over 

KovEoatv 
Oitovoial  TE  iraai — 

that  is,  he  can  paint  all  manner  of  birds  and  beasts  as 
nobody  else  can.    To  tell  you  a  secret,  I  do  not  think  he 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES  349 

understands  how  to  paint  the  great  beast,  man,  quite  so 
well ;  or,  at  least,  to  do  what  is  the  highest  quality  of  an 
artist,  to  place  a  soul  under  the  ribs  as  he  draws  them. 
They  are,  if  you  like,  the  most  dexterous  pictures  that 
ever  were  painted,  but  not  great  pictures.  I  would  much 
rather  look  at  yonder  rough  Leslie  than  at  all  the  won- 
derful painting  of  parrots  or  greyhounds,  though  done 
to  a  hair  or  a  feather. 

Leslie  is  the  only  man  in  this  country  who  translates 
Shakspeare  into  form  and  colour.  Old  Shallow  and 
Sir  Hugh,  Slender  and  his  man  Simple,  pretty  Anne 
Page  and  the  INIerry  Wives  of  Windsor,  are  here  joking 
with  the  fat  knight;  who,  with  a  monstrous  gravity  and 
profound  brazen  humour,  is  narrating  some  tale  of  his 
feats  with  the  wild  Prince  and  Poins.  ^Master  Brooke  is 
offering  a  tankard  to  JNIaster  Slender,  who  will  not 
drink,  forsooth. 

This  picture  is  executed  with  the  utmost  simplicity, 
and  almost  rudeness;  but  is  charming,  from  its  great 
truth  of  effect  and  expression.  Wilkie's  pictures  (in  his 
latter  style)  seem  to  begin  where  Leslie's  end;  the  for- 
mer's men  and  women  look  as  if  the  bodies  had  hee7i 
taken  out  of  them,  and  only  the  surface  left.  Lovely  as 
the  Queen's  figure  is,  for  instance,  it  looks  like  a  spirit, 
and  not  a  woman ;  one  may  almost  see  through  her  into 
the  waistcoat  of  Lord  Lansdowne,  and  so  on  through 
the  rest  of  the  transparent  heroes  and  statesmen  of  the 
compan5^ 

Opposite  the  Queen  is  another  charming  performance 
of  Sir  David — a  bride  dressing,  amidst  a  rout  of  brides- 
maids and  relations.  Some  are  crying,  some  are  smil- 
ing, some  are  pinning  her  gown;  a  back  door  is  open, 
and  a  golden  sun  shines  into  a  room  which  contains  a 


350  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

venerable-looking  bed  and  tester,  probably  that  in  which 
the  dear  girl  is  to— but  parlous  d'autres  clioses.  The 
colour  of  this  picture  is  delicious,  and  the  effect  faultless : 
Sir  David  does  everything  for  a  picture  nowadays  but 
the  drawing.  Who  knows?  Perhaps  it  is  as  well  left 
out. 

Look  yonder,  down  to  the  ground,  and  admire  a  most 
beautiful  fantastic  Ariel. 

"  On  the  bat's  back  do  I  fly, 
After  sunset  merrily.'* 

Merry  Ariel  lies  at  his  ease,  and  whips  with  gorgeous 
peacock's  feather  his  courser,  flapping  lazy  through  the 
golden  evening  sky.  This  exquisite  little  picture  is  the 
work  of  Mr.  Severn,  an  artist  who  has  educated  his  taste 
and  his  hand  in  the  early  Roman  school.  He  has  not  the 
dash  and  dexterity  of  the  latter  which  belong  to  some  of 
our  painters,  but  he  possesses  that  solemn  earnestness 
and  simplicity  of  mind  and  purpose  which  make  a  re- 
ligion of  art,  and  seem  to  be  accorded  only  to  a  few  in  our 
profession.  I  have  heard  a  pious  pupil  of  Mr.  Ingres 
(the  head  of  your  academy  at  Rome)  aver  stoutly,  that, 
in  matters  of  art,  Titian  was  Antichrist,  and  Rubens, 
Martin  Luther.  They  came  with  their  brilliant  colours, 
and  dashing  worldly  notions,  upsetting  that  beautiful 
system  of  faith  in  which  art  had  lived  hitherto.  Por- 
traits of  saints  and  martyrs,  with  pure  eyes  turned 
heavenward;  and  (as  all  true  sanctity  will)  making 
those  pure  who  came  within  their  reach,  now  gave  way 
to  wicked  likenesses  of  men  of  blood,  or  dangerous,  devil- 
ish, sensual  portraits  of  tempting  women.  Before 
Titian,  a  picture  was  the  labour  of  years.     Why  did  this 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES  351 

reformer  ever  come  among  us,  and  show  how  it  might  be 
done  in  a  day?  He  drove  the  good  angels  away  from 
painters'  easels,  and  called  down  a  host  of  voluptuous 
spirits  instead,  who  ever  since  have  held  the  mastery 
there. 

Only  a  few  artists  of  our  countiy  (none  in  yours, 
where  the  so-called  Catholic  school  is  a  mere  theatrical 
folly),  and  some  among  the  Germans,  have  kept  to  the 
true  faith,  and  eschewed  the  temptations  of  Titian  and 
his  like.  Mr.  Eastlake  is  one  of  these.  Who  does  not 
recollect  his  portrait  of  JNIiss  Bury?  Not  a  simple 
woman — the  lovely  daughter  of  the  authoress  of 
"  Love,"  "  Flirtation,"  and  other  remarkable  works — but 
a  glorified  saint.  Who  does  not  remember  his  Saint  Se- 
bastian; his  body  bare,  his  eyes  cast  melancholy  down; 
his  limbs,  as  yet  untouched  by  the  arrows  of  his  persecut- 
ors, tied  to  the  fatal  tree?  Those  two  pictures  of  Mr. 
Eastlake  would  merit  to  hang  in  a  gallery  where  there 
were  only  RafFaelles  besides.  Mr.  Severn  is  another  of 
the  school.  I  don't  know  what  hidden  and  indefinable 
charm  there  is  in  his  simple  pictures;  but  I  never  can 
look  at  them  without  a  certain  emotion  of  awe — without 
that  thrill  of  the  heart  with  which  one  hears  country 
children  sing  the  Old  Hundredth,  for  instance.  The 
singers  are  rude,  perhaps,  and  the  voices  shrill;  but  the 
melody  is  still  pure  and  godlike.  Some  such  majestic 
and  pious  harmony  is  there  in  these  pictures  of  Mr. 
Severn.  ]Mr.  INIulready's  mind  has  lately  gained  this 
same  kind  of  inspiration.  I  know  no  one  else  who  pos- 
sesses it,  except,  perhaps,  myself.  Without  flattery,  I 
may  say,  that  my  picture  of  "  Heliogabalus  at  Car- 
thage "  is  not  in  the  popular  taste,  and  has  about  it  some 
faint  odour  of  celestial  incense. 


352  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Do  not,  my  dear  Anatole,  consider  me  too  great  an  ass 
for  persisting  upon  this  point,  and  exemplifying  Mr. 
Severn's  picture  of  the  "  Crusaders  catching  a  First 
View  of  Jerusalem  "  as  an  instance.  Godfrey  and  Tan- 
cred,  Raymond  and  Ademar,  Beamond  and  Rinaldo, 
with  Peter  and  the  Christian  host,  behold  at  length  the 
day  dawning. 

"  E  quando  il  sol  gli  aridi  campi  fiede 

Con  raggi  assai  ferventi,  e  in  alto  sorge; 

Ecco  apparir  Gerusalem  si  vede, 
Ecco  additar  Gerusalem  si  scorge, 

Ecco  da  mille  voci  unitamente 

Gerusalemme  salutar  si  sente !  " 

Well,  Godfrey  and  Tancred,  Peter,  and  the  rest,  look 
like  little  wooden  dolls ;  and  as  for  the  horses  belonging 
to  the  crusading  cavalry,  I  have  seen  better  in  ginger- 
bread. But,  what  then?  There  is  a  higher  ingredient 
in  beauty  than  mere  form;  a  skilful  hand  is  only  the 
second  artistical  quality,  worthless,  my  Anatole,  without 
the  first,  which  is  a  great  heart.  This  picture  is  beauti- 
ful, in  spite  of  its  defects,  as  many  women  are.  Mrs. 
Titmarsh  is  beautiful,  though  she  weighs  nineteen  stone. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  religious  pictures,  what  shall 
I  say  of  Mr.  Ward's?  Anything  so  mysteriously  hid- 
eous was  never  seen  before  now ;  they  are  worse  than  all 
the  horrors  in  your  Spanish  Gallery  at  Paris.  As  East- 
lake's  are  of  the  Catholic,  these  may  be  called  of  the 
Muggletonian  school  of  art;  monstrous,  livid,  and  dread- 
ful, as  the  dreams  of  a  man  in  the  scarlet  fever.  I  would 
much  sooner  buy  a  bottled  baby  with  two  heads  as  a 
pleasing  ornament  for  my  cabinet;  and  should  be  afraid 
to  sit  alone  in  a  room  with  "  ignorance,  envy,  and  jeal- 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES  353 

ousy  filling  the  throat,  and  widening  the  mouth  of  cal- 
umny endeavouring  to  bear  do\Mi  truth!" 

jNIr.  INIaclise's  picture  of  "  Christmas  "  you  will  find 
excellently  described  in  the  jNIay  number  of  a  periodical 
of  much  celebrity  among  us,  called  Frasers  Magazine. 
Since  the  circulation  of  that  miscellany  is  almost  as  ex- 
tensive in  Paris  as  in  London,  it  is  needless  in  this  letter 
to  go  over  beaten  ground,  and  speak  at  length  of  the  plot 
of  this  remarkable  picture.  There  are  five  hundred 
merry  figures  painted  on  this  canvas,  gobbling,  singing, 
kissing,  carousing.  A  line  of  jolly  ser^^ing  men  troop 
down  the  hall  stairs,  and  bear  the  boar's  head  in  proces- 
sion up  to  the  dais,  where  sits  the  good  old  English  gen- 
tleman, and  his  s^uests  and  familv;  a  set  of  mummers 
and  vassals  are  crowded  round  a  table  gorging  beef  and 
wassail;  a  bevy  of  blooming  girls  and  young  men  are 
huddled  in  a  circle,  and  play  at  hunt  the  slipper.  Of 
course,  there  are  plenty  of  stories  told  at  the  huge  hall 
fire,  and  kissing  under  the  glistening  mistletoe-bough. 
But  I  wish  you  could  see  the  wonderful  accuracy  with 
which  all  these  figures  are  drawn,  and  the  extraordinary 
skill  with  which  the  artist  has  managed  to  throw  into  a 
hundred  different  faces  a  hundred  different  characters 
and  individualities  of  joy.  Every  one  of  these  little 
people  is  smiling,  but  each  has  his  own  particular  smile. 
As  for  the  colouring  of  the  picture,  it  is,  between  our- 
selves, atrocious;  but  a  man  cannot  have  all  the  merits 
at  once.  JNIr.  ISIaclise  has  for  his  share  humour  such  as 
few  painters  ever  possessed,  and  a  power  of  drawing 
such  as  never  was  possessed  by  any  other;  no,  not  by  one, 
from  Albert  Diirer  do^oiwards.  His  scene  from  the 
"Vicar  of  Wakefield"  is  equally  charming.  INIoses-'s 
shining  grinning  face ;  the  little  man  in  red  who  stands 


354  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

on  tiptoe,  and  painfully  scrawls  his  copy;  and  the 
youngest  of  the  family  of  the  Primroses,  who  learns  his 
letters  on  his  father's  knee,  are  perfect  in  design  and  ex- 
pression. What  might  not  this  man  do,  if  he  would  read 
and  meditate  a  little,  and  profit  by  the  works  of  men 
whose  taste  and  education  were  superior  to  his  own. 

Mr.  Charles  Landseer  has  two  tableaux  de  genre^ 
which  possess  very  great  merit.  His  characters  are  a 
little  too  timid,  perhaps,  as  Mr.  Maclise's  are  too  bold; 
but  the  figures  are  beautifully  drawn,  the  colouring  and 
effect  excellent,  and  the  accessories  painted  with  great 
faithfulness  and  skill.  "  The  Parting  Benison  "  is,  per- 
haps, the  more  interesting  picture  of  the  two. 

And  now  we  arrive  at  Mr.  Etty,  whose  rich  luscious 
pencil  has  covered  a  hundred  glowing  canvases,  which 
every  painter  must  love.  I  don't  know  whether  the 
Duke  has  this  year  produced  anything  which  one  might 
have  expected  from  a  man  of  his  rank  and  consequence. 
He  is,  like  great  men,  lazy,  or  indifferent,  perhaps, 
about  public  approbation;  and  also,  like  great  men, 
somewhat  too  luxurious  and  fond  of  pleasure.  For  in- 
stance, here  is  a  picture  of  a  sleepy  nymph,  most  richly 
painted ;  but  tipsy-looking,  coarse,  and  so  naked  as  to  be 
unfit  for  appearance  among  respectable  people  at  an  ex- 
hibition. You  will  understand  what  I  mean.  There  are 
some  figures  without  a  rag  to  cover  them,  which  look 
modest  and  decent  for  all  that;  and  others,  which  may 
be  clothed  to  the  chin,  and  yet  are  not  fit  for  modest  eyes 
to  gaze  on.  Verhum  sat — this  naughty  "  Somnolency  " 
ough^-  to  go  to  sleep  in  her  night-gown. 

But  here  is  a  far  nobler  painting, — the  Prodigal  kneel- 
ing down  lonely  in  the  stormy  evening,  and  praying  to 
Heaven  for  pardon.     It  is  a  grand  and  touching  pic- 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES  355 

ture;  and  looks  as  large  as  if  the  three-foot  canvas  had 
been  twenty.  His  wan  wretched  figure  and  clasped 
hands  are  lighted  up  by  the  sunset;  the  clouds  are  livid 
and  heavy;  and  the  wdnd  is  howling  over  the  solitary 
common,  and  numbing  the  chill  limbs  of  the  poor  wan- 
derer. A  goat  and  a  boar  are  looking  at  him  with  hor- 
rid obscene  eyes.  They  are  the  demons  of  Lust  and 
Gluttony,  w^hich  have  brought  him  to  this  sad  pass.  And 
there  seems  no  hope,  no  succour,  no  ear  for  the  prayer  of 
this  wretched,  wayworn,  miserable  man  who  kneels  there 
alone,  shuddering.  Only  above,  in  the  gusty  blue  sky, 
you  see  a  glistening,  peaceful,  silver  star,  which  points 
to  home  and  hope,  as  clearly  as  if  the  little  star  were  a 
sign-post,  and  home  at  the  very  next  turn  of  the  road. 

Away,  then,  O  conscience-stricken  prodigal!  and  you 
shall  find  a  good  father,  who  loves  you;  and  an  elder 
brother,  who  hates  you — but  never  mind  that;  and  a 
dear,  kind,  stout  old  mother,  who  liked  you  twice  as  well 
as  the  elder,  for  all  his  goodness  and  psalm-singing,  and 
has  a  tear  and  a  prayer  for  you  night  and  morning ;  and 
a  pair  of  gentle  sisters,  maybe ;  and  a  poor  young  thing 
down  in  the  village,  who  has  never  forgotten  your  walks 
in  the  quiet  nut-woods,  and  the  birds'  nests  you  brought 
her,  and  the  big  boy  you  thrashed,  because  he  broke  the 
eggs:  he  is  squire  now,  the  big  boy,  and  would  marry 
her,  but  she  will  not  have  him— not  she!— her  thoughts 
are  with  her  dark-eyed,  bold-browed,  devil-may-care 
playmate,  who  swore  she  should  be  his  little  wife— and 
then  went  to  college— and  then  came  back  sick  and 
changed— and  then  got  into  debt— and  then—  But 
never  mind,  man!  down  to  her  at  once.  She  will  pre- 
tend to  be  cold  at  first,  and  then  shiver  and  turn  red  and 
deadly  pale ;  and  then  she  tumbles  into  your  hands,  with 


856  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

a  gush  of  sweet  tears,  and  a  pair  of  rainbows  in  her  soft 
eyes,  welcoming  the  sunshine  back  to  her  bosom  again! 
To  her,  man!— never  fear,  miss!  Hug  him,  and  kiss 
him,  as  though  you  would  draw  the  heart  from  his  lips. 

When  she  has  done,  the  poor  thing  falls  stone-pale  and 
sobbing  on  young  Prodigal's  shoulder;  and  he  carries 
her  quite  gently,  to  that  old  bench  where  he  carved  her 
name  fourteen  years  ago,  and  steals  his  arm  round  her 
waist,  and  kisses  her  hand,  and  soothes  her.  Then  comes 
out  the  poor  widow,  her  mother,  who  is  pale  and  tearful 
too,  and  tries  to  look  cold  and  unconcerned.  She  kisses 
her  daughter,  and  leads  her  trembling  into  the  house. 
"  You  will  come  to  us  to-morrow,  Tom? "  says  she,  as  she 
takes  his  hand  at  the  gate. 

To-morrow!  To  be  sure  he  will ;  and  this  very  night, 
too,  after  supper  with  the  old  people.  (Young  Squire 
Prodigal  never  sups;  and  has  found  out  that  he  must 
ride  into  town,  to  arrange  about  a  missionary  meeting 
with  the  Reverend  Doctor  Slack  jaw.)  To  be  sure,  Tom 
Prodigal  will  go;  the  moon  will  be  up,  and  who  knows 
but  Lucy  may  be  looking  at  it  about  twelve  o'clock.  At 
one,  back  trots  the  young  squire,  and  he  sees  two  people 
whispering  at  a  window;  and  he  gives  something  very 
like  a  curse,  as  he  digs  into  the  ribs  of  his  mare,  and  can- 
ters, clattering,  down  the  silent  road. 

Yes — but,  in  the  meantime,  there  is  the  old  house- 
keeper, with  "Lord  bless  us!"  and  "Heaven  save  us!" 
and  "  Who'd  have  thought  ever  again  to  see  his  dear 
face?  And  master  to  forget  it  all,  who  swore  so  dread- 
ful that  he  would  never  see  him! — as  for  missis,  she 
always  loved  him."  There,  I  say,  is  the  old  housekeeper, 
logging  the  fire,  airing  the  sheets,  and  flapping  the 
feather  beds — for  Master  Tom's  room  has  never  been 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES  357 

used  this  many  a  day;  and  the  young  ladies  have  got 
some  flowers  for  his  chimney-piece,  and  put  back  his 
mother's  portrait,  which  they  have  had  in  their  room  ever 
since  he  went  away  and  forgot  it,  woe  is  me!  And  old 
John,  the  butler,  coachman,  footman,  valet,  factotum, 
consults  with  master  about  supper. 

"  What  can  we  have? "  says  master;  "  all  the  shops  are 
shut,  and  there's  nothing  in  the  house." 

John.  "No,  no  more  there  isn't;  only  Guernsey's 
calf.  Butcher  kill'd'n  yasterday,  as  your  honour 
knowth." 

Master.  "  Come,  John,  a  calf's  enough.  Tell  the 
cook  to  send  us  up  that." 

And  he  gives  a  hoarse  haw !  haw !  at  his  wit ;  and  Mrs. 
Prodigal  smiles  too,  and  says,  "  All,  Tom  Prodigal,  you 
were  always  a  merry  fellow!" 

Well,  John  Footman  carries  down  the  message  to 
cook,  who  is  a  country  wench,  and  takes  people  at  their 
word ;  and  what  do  you  think  she  sends  up  ? 

Top  Dish. 
Fillet  of  veal,  and  bacon  on  the  side-table. 

Bottom  Dish. 
Roast  ribs  of  veal. 

In  the  Middle. 

Calves'-head  soup  (a  la  tortue). 
Veal  broth. 

Between. 

Boiled  knuckle  of  veal,  and  parsley  sauce. 

Stewed  veal,  with  brown  sauce  and  forced-meat  balls. 


358  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Entremets. 

Veal  olives  (for  sauce,  see  stewed  veal). 

Veal  cutlets  (panees,  sauce  piquante). 

Ditto  (en  papillote). 

Scotch  collops. 

Fricandeau  of  veal  (pique  au  lard  a  la  chicoree). 

Minced  veal. 

Blanquet  of  veal. 

Second  Course. 

Curry  of  calves'-head. 
Sweetbreads. 
Calves'-foot  jelly. 

See,  my  dear  Anatole,  what  a  world  of  thought  can 
be  conjured  up  out  of  a  few  inches  of  painted  canvas. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  great  and  crowning  picture 
of  the  exhibition,  my  own  historical  piece,  namely,  "  He- 
liogabalus  in  the  Ruins  of  Carthage."     In  this  grand 

and  finished  perform 

*zlk  ^  ^  ^ 

*I\  *l*  #1%  *l* 

*^*Mr.  Titmarsh's  letter  stops,  unfortunately,  here. 
We  found  it,  at  midnight,  the  15th-16th  May,  in  a 
gutter  of  Saint  Martin's  Lane,  whence  a  young  gentle- 
man had  been  just  removed  by  the  police.  It  is  to  be 
presumed  that  intoxication  could  be  his  only  cause  for 
choosing  such  a  sleeping-place,  at  such  an  hour;  and  it 
had  probably  commenced  as  he  was  writing  the  above 
fragment.  We  made  inquiries  at  Lord's  Coffee  House, 
of  Mr.  Moth  (who,  from  being  the  active  and  experi- 
enced head-waiter,  is  now  the  obliging  landlord  of  that 
establishment) ,  and  were  told  that  a  gentleman  unknown 
had  dined  there  at  three,  and  had  been  ceaselessly  occu- 


STRICTURES  ON  PICTURES  359 

pied  in  writing  and  drinking  until  a  quarter  to  twelve, 
when  he  abruptly  left  the  house.  Mr.  Moth  regretted 
to  add,  that  the  stranger  had  neglected  to  pay  for  thir- 
teen glasses  of  gin-and-v/ater,  half-a-pint  of  porter,  a 
bottle  of  soda-water,  and  a  plate  of  ham  sandwiches, 
which  he  had  consumed  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

We  have  paid  Mr.  Moth  (whose  very  moderate 
charges,  and  excellent  stock  of  wines  and  spirits,  cannot 
be  too  highly  commended),  and  shall  gladly  hand  over 
to  Mr.  Titmarsh  the  remaining  sum  which  is  his  due. 
Has  he  any  more  of  his  rhapsody? — O.  Y. 

{Fraser^s  Magazine,  June  1838.) 


A  SECOND  LECTURE  ON  THE  FINE 

ARTS,  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO 

TITMARSH,  ESQUIRE 

THE   EXHIBITIONS 

Jack  Straw's  Castle,  Hampstead. 

MY  DEAR  BRICABRAC,-You,  of  course,  re- 
member the  letter  on  the  subject  of  our  exhibi- 
tions which  I  addressed  to  you  this  time  last  year.  As 
you  are  now  lying  at  the  Hotel  Dieu,  wounded  during 
the  late  unsuccessful  emeute  (which  I  think,  my  dear 
friend,  is  the  seventeenth  you  have  been  engaged  in), 
and  as  the  letter  which  I  wrote  last  year  was  received 
with  unbounded  applause  by  the  people  here,  and  caused 
a  sale  of  three  or  four  editions  of  this  Magazine,  I  cannot 
surely,  my  dear  Bricabrac,  do  better  than  send  you  an- 
other sheet  or  two,  which  may  console  you  under  your 
present  bereavement,  and  at  the  same  time  amuse  the 
British  public,  who  now  know  their  friend  Titmarsh  as 
well  as  you  in  France  know  that  little  scamp  Thiers. 

Well,  then,  from  "  Jack  Straw's  Castle,"  an  hotel  on 
Hampstead's  breezy  heath,  which  Keats,  Wordsworth, 
Leigh  Hunt,  F.  W.  N.  Bayley,  and  others  of  our 
choicest  spirits,  have  often  patronised,  and  a  heath  of 
which  every  pool,  bramble,  furze-bush-with-clothes- 
hanging-on-it-to-dry,  steep,  stock,  stone,  tree,  lodging- 
house,  and  distant  gloomy  background  of  London  city,  or 

360 


SECOND  LECTURE  ON  FINE  ARTS     361 

bright  green  stretch  of  sunshiny  Hertfordshire  meadows, 
has  been  depicted  by  our  noble  Enghsh  landscape- 
-painter, Constable,  in  his  own  Constabulary  way — at 
"  Jack  Straw's  Castle,"  I  say,  where  I  at  this  present  mo- 
ment am  located  (not  that  it  matters  in  the  least,  but  the 
world  is  always  interested  to  know  where  men  of  genius 
are  accustomed  to  disport  themselves),  I  cannot  do  bet- 
ter than  look  over  the  heap  of  picture-gallery  catalogues 
which  I  brought  with  me  from  London,  and  communi- 
cate to  you,  my  friend  in  Paris,  my  remarks  thereon. 

A  man  with  five  shillings  to  spare  may  at  this  present 
moment  half  kill  himself  with  pleasure  in  London  town, 
and  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Pall  INIall,  by  going  from 
one  picture  gallery  to  another,  and  examining  the  beauties 
and  absurdities  which  are  to  be  found  in  each.  There  is 
first  the  National  Gallery  (entrance,  nothing),  in  one 
wing  of  the  little  gin-shop  of  a  building  so  styled  near 
Saint  ]Martin's  Church;  in  another  wing  is  the  exhibition 
of  the  Royal  Academy  (entrance,  one  shilling;  cata- 
logue, one  ditto).  After  having  seen  this,  you  come  to 
the  Water-Colour  Exhibition  in  Pall  ]Mall  East;  then  to 
the  Gallery  in  Suffolk  Street;  and,  finally,  to  the  New 
Water-Colour  Society  in  Pall  Mall,— a  pretty  room, 
which  formerly  used  to  be  a  gambling-house,  where 
many  a  bout  of  seven's-the-main,  and  iced  champagne, 
has  been  had  by  the  dissipated  in  former  days.  All  these 
collections  (all  the  modern  ones,  that  is)  deserve  to  be 
noticed,  and  contain  a  deal  of  good,  bad,  and  indifferent 
wares,  as  is  the  way  with  all  other  institutions  in  this 
wicked  world. 

Commenfons  done  avec  le  commencement — with  tlie 
exhibition  of  the  Royal  Academy,  which  consists,  as 
everybody  knows,   of  thirty-eight  knight  and  esquire 


362  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Academicians,  and  nineteen  simple  and  ungenteel  Asso- 
ciates, who  have  not  so  much  as  a  shabby  Mister  before 
their  names.  I  recollect  last  year  facetiously  ranging 
these  gentlemen  in  rank  according  to  what  I  conceived 
to  be  their  merits, — King  Mulready,  Prince  Maclise, 
Lord  Landseer,  Archbishop  Eastlake  (according  to  the 
best  of  my  memory,  for  "  Jack  Straw,"  strange  to  say, 
does  not  take  in  Frasers  Magazine) ,  and  so  on.  At 
present,  a  great  number  of  new-comers,  not  Associates 
even,  ought  to  be  elevated  to  these  aristocratic  dignities; 
and,  perhaps,  the  order  ought  to  be  somewhat  changed. 
There  are  many  more  good  pictures  (here  and  else- 
where) than  there  were  last  year.  A  great  stride  has 
been  taken  in  matters  of  art,  my  dear  friend.  The 
young  painters  are  stepping  forward.  Let  the  old 
fogies  look  to  it;  let  the  old  Academic  Olympians  be- 
ware, for  there  are  fellows  among  the  rising  race  who 
bid  fair  to  oust  them  from  sovereignty.  They  have  not 
yet  arrived  at  the  throne,  to  be  sure,  but  they  are  near  it. 
The  lads  are  not  so  good  as  the  best  of  the  Academi- 
cians ;  but  many  of  the  Academicians  are  infinitely  worse 
than  the  lads,  and  are  old,  stupid,  and  cannot  improve, 
as  the  younger  and  more  active  painters  will. 

If  you  are  particularly  anxious  to  know  what  is  the 
best  picture  in  the  room,  not  the  biggest  ( Sir  David  Wil- 
kie's  is  the  biggest,  and  exactly  contrary  to  the  best),  I 
must  request  j^ou  to  turn  j^our  attention  to  a  noble  river- 
piece  by  J.  W.  M.  Turner,  Esquire,  R.A.,  "  The  Fight- 
ing *  Temeraire'  " — as  grand  a  painting  as  ever  figured 
on  the  walls  of  any  Academy,  or  came  from  the  easel  of 
any  painter.  The  old  "  Temeraire  "  is  dragged  to  her 
last  home  by  a  little,  spiteful,  diabolical  steamer.  A 
mighty  red  sun,  amidst  a  host  of  flaring  clouds,  sinks  to 


SECOND  LECTURE  ON  FINE  ARTS     3G3 

rest  on  one  side  of  the  picture,  and  illumines  a  river  that 
seems  interminable,  and  a  countless  navy  that  fades  away 
into  such  a  wonderful  distance  as  never  was  painted  be- 
fore. The  little  demon  of  a  steamer  is  belching  out  a 
volume  (why  do  I  say  a  volume?  not  a  hundred  volumes 
could  express  it)  of  foul,  lurid,  red-hot,  malignant 
smoke,  paddling  furiously,  and  lashing  up  the  water 
round  about  it;  while  behind  it  (a  cold  grey  moon  look- 
ing down  on  it),  slow,  sad,  and  majestic,  follows  the 
brave  old  ship,  with  death,  as  it  were,  written  on  her.  I 
think,  my  dear  Bricabrac  (although,  to  be  sure,  your  na- 
tion would  be  somewhat  offended  by  such  a  collection  of 
trophies),  that  we  ought  not,  in  common  gratitude,  to 
sacrifice  entirely  these  noble  old  champions  of  ours,  but 
that  we  should  have  somewhere  a  museum  of  their  skele- 
tons, which  our  children  might  visit,  and  think  of  the 
brave  deeds  which  were  done  in  them.  The  bones  of  the 
"  Agamemnon  "  and  the  "  Captain,"  the  "  Vanguard," 
the  "  Culloden,"  and  the  "  Victory,"  ought  to  be  sacred 
relics,  for  Englishmen  to  worship  almost.  Think  of 
them  when  alive,  and  braving  the  battle  and  the  breeze, 
they  carried  Nelson  and  his  heroes  victorious  by  the  Cape 
of  Saint  Vincent,  in  the  dark  waters  of  Aboukir,  and 
through  the  fatal  conflict  of  Trafalgar.  All  these 
things,  my  dear  Bricabrac,  are,  you  will  say,  absurd,  and 
not  to  the  purpose.  Be  it  so;  but  Bowbellites  as  we  are, 
we  Cockneys  feel  our  hearts  leap  up  when  we  recall  them 
to  memory ;  and  every  clerk  in  Threadneedle  Street  feels 
the  strength  of  a  Nelson,  when  he  thinks  of  the  mighty 
actions  performed  by  him. 

It  is  absurd,  you  will  say  (and  with  a  great  deal  of 
reason),  for  Titmarsh,  or  any  other  Briton,  to  grow  so 
poetically  enthusiastic  about  a  four-foot  canvas,  repre- 


364  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

senting  a  ship,  a  steamer,  a  river,  and  a  sunset.  But 
herein  surely  lies  the  power  of  the  great  artist.  He 
makes  you  see  and  think  of  a  great  deal  more  than  the 
objects  before  you;  he  knows  how  to  soothe  or  intoxi- 
cate, to  fire  or  to  depress,  by  a  few  notes,  or  forms,  or  col- 
ours, of  which  we  cannot  trace  the  effect  to  the  source,  but 
only  acknowledge  the  power.  I  recollect  some  years  ago, 
at  the  theatre  at  Weimar,  hearing  Beethoven's  "  Battle 
of  Vittoria,"  in  which,  amidst  a  storm  of  glorious  music, 
the  air  of  "  God  save  the  King"  was  introduced.  The 
very  instant  it  began,  every  Englishman  in  the  house 
was  bolt  upright,  and  so  stood  reverently  until  the  air 
was  played  out.  Why  so?  From  some  such  thrill  of 
excitement  as  makes  us  glow  and  rejoice  over  Mr. 
Turner  and  his  "Fighting  '  Temeraire ' ;  "  which  I  am 
sure,  when  the  art  of  translating  colours  into  music  or 
poetry  shall  be  discovered,  will  be  found  to  be  a  magnifi- 
cent national  ode  or  piece  of  music. 

I  must  tell  you,  however,  that  Mr.  Turner's  perform- 
ances are  for  the  most  part  quite  incomprehensible  to 
me;  and  that  his  other  pictures,  which  he  is  pleased  to 
call  "  Cicero  at  his  Villa,"  "  Agrippina  with  the  Ashes 
of  Germanicus,"  "  Pluto  carrying  off  Proserpina,"  or 
what  you  will,  are  not  a  whit  more  natural,  or  less  mad, 
than  they  used  to  be  in  former  years,  since  he  has  for- 
saken nature,  or  attempted  (like  your  French  barbers) 
to  embellish  it.  On  nembellit  jms  la  nature,  my  dear 
Bricabrac ;  one  may  make  pert  caricatures  of  it,  or  mad 
exaggerations  like  Mr.  Turner  in  his  fancy  pieces.  O 
ye  gods!  why  will  he  not  stick  to  copying  her  majestical 
countenance,  instead  of  daubing  it  with  some  absurd 
antics  and  fard  of  his  own?  Fancy  pea-green  skies, 
crimson-lake  trees,  and  orange  and  purple  grass — fancy 


SECOND  LECTURE  ON  FINE  ARTS     365 

cataracts,  rainbows,  suns,  moons,  and  thunderbolts — 
shake  them  well  up,  with  a  quantity  of  gamboge,  and 
you  will  have  an  idea  of  a  fanc}^  picture  by  Turner.  It 
is  worth  a  shilling  alone  to  go  and  see  "  Pluto  and  Pro- 
serpina." Such  a  landscape!  such  figures!  such  a  little 
red-hot  coal-scuttle  of  a  chariot!     As  Nat  Lee  sings — 

"  Methought  I  saw  a  hieroglyphic  bat 
Skim  o'er  the  surface  of  a  slipshod  hat ; 
While,  to  increase  the  tumult  of  the  skies, 
A  damned  potato  o'er  the  whirlwind  flies." 

If  you  can  understand  these  lines,  you  can  understand 
one  of  Turner's  landscapes;  and  I  recommend  them  to 
him,  as  a  pretty  subject  for  a  piece  for  next  year. 

Etty  has  a  picture  on  the  same  subject  as  Turner's 
"  Pluto  carrying  off  Proserpina; "  and  if  one  may  com- 
plain that  in  the  latter  the  figures  are  not  indicated,  one 
cannot  at  least  lay  this  fault  to  JNIr.  Etty's  door.  His 
figures  are  drawn,  and  a  deuced  deal  too  much  drawn. 
A  great  large  curtain  of  fig-leaves  should  be  hung  over 
every  one  of  this  artist's  pictures,  and  the  world  should 
pass  on,  content  to  know  that  there  are  some  glorious 
colours  painted  beneath.  His  colour,  indeed,  is  sublime: 
I  doubt  if  Titian  ever  knew  how  to  paint  flesh  better — 
but  his  taste!  Not  David  nor  Girodet  ever  offended 
propriety  so— scarcely  ever  Peter  Paul  himself,  by 
whose  side,  as  a  colourist  and  a  magnificent  heroic 
painter,  Mr.  Ettj^  is  sometimes  worthy  to  stand.  I  wish 
he  would  take  Ariosto  in  hand,  and  give  us  a  series  of 
designs  from  him.  His  hand  would  be  the  very  one  for 
those  deep  luscious  landscapes,  and  fiery  scenes  of  love 
and  battle.  Besides  "  Proserpine,"  Mr.  Etty  has  two 
more   pictures,    "  Endymion,"   with   a   dirty,   affected, 


366  CRITICAL   REVIEWS 

beautiful,  slatternly  Diana,  and  a  portrait  of  the  "  Lady- 
Mayoress  of  York,"  which  is  a  curiosity  in  its  way.  The 
line  of  her  ladyship's  eyes  and  mouth  (it  is  a  front  face) 
are  made  to  meet  at  a  point  in  a  marabou  feather  which 
she  wears  in  her  turban,  and  close  to  her  cheekbone ;  while 
the  expression  of  the  whole  countenance  is  so  fierce,  that 
you  would  imagine  it  a  Lady  Macbeth,  and  not  a  lady 
mayoress.  The  picture  has,  nevertheless,  some  very  fine 
painting  about  it — as  which  of  INIr.  Etty's  pieces  has 
not? 

The  artists  say  there  is  very  fine  painting,  too,  in  Sir 
David  Wilkie's  great  "  Sir  David  Baird;  "  for  my  part, 
I  think  very  little.  You  see  a  great  quantity  of  brown 
paint ;  in  this  is  a  great  flashing  of  torches,  feathers,  and 
bayonets.  You  see  in  the  foreground,  huddled  up  in  a 
rich  heap  of  corpses  and  drapery,  Tippoo  Sahib;  and 
swaggering  over  him  on  a  step,  waving  a  sword  for  no 
earthly  purpose,  and  wearing  a  red  jacket  and  buck- 
skins, the  figure  of  Sir  David  Baird.  The  picture  is 
poor,  feeble,  theatrical;  and  I  would  just  as  soon  have 
Mr.  Hart's  great  canvas  of  "Ladj^  Jane  Grey"  (which 
is  worth  exactly  twopence-halfpenny)  as  Sir  David's 
poor  picture  of  "  Seringapatam."  Some  of  Sir  David's 
portraits  are  worse  even  than  his  historical  compositions 
— they  seem  to  be  painted  with  snufF  and  tallow-grease: 
the  faces  are  merety  indicated,  and  without  individuality ; 
the  forms  only  half -drawn,  and  almost  always  wronff. 
What  has  come  to  the  hand  that  painted  "  The  Blind 
Fiddler  "  and  "  The  Chelsea  Pensioners  "  ?  Who  would 
have  thought  that  such  a  portrait  as  that  of  "  Master 
Robert  Donne,"  or  the  composition  entitled  "  The 
Grandfather,"  could  ever  have  come  from  the  author  of 
"  The  Rent  Day  "  and  "  The  Reading  of  the  Will "  ? 


SECOND  LECTURE  ON  FINE  ARTS     367 

If  it  be  but  a  contrast  to  this  feeble,  flimsy,  transparent 
figure  of  JNIaster  Donne,  the  spectator  cannot  do  better 
than  cast  his  eyes  upwards,  and  look  at  Mr.  Linnell's 
excellent  portrait  of  "  Mr.  Robert  Peel."  It  is  real  sub- 
stantial nature,  carefully  and  honestly  painted,  and  with- 
out any  flashy  tricks  of  art.  It  may  seem  ungracious  in 
"us  youth"  thus  to  fall  foul  of  our  betters;  but  if  Sir 
David  has  taught  us  to  like  good  pictures,  by  painting 
them  formerly,  we  cannot  help  criticising  if  he  paints 
bad  ones  now ;  and  bad  thej^  most  surely  are. 

From  the  censure,  however,  must  be  excepted  the  pic- 
ture of  "  Grace  before  Meat,"  which,  a  little  misty  and 
feeble,  perhaps,  in  drawing  and  substance,  in  colour, 
feeling,  composition,  and  expression  is  exquisite.  The 
eye  loves  to  repose  upon  this  picture,  and  the  heart  to 
brood  over  it  afterwards.  When,  as  I  said  before,  lines 
and  colours  come  to  be  translated  into  sounds,  this  pic- 
ture, I  have  no  doubt,  will  turn  out  to  be  a  sweet  and 
touching  hymn-tune,  with  rude  notes  of  cheerful  voices, 
and  peal  of  soft  melodious  organ,  such  as  one  hears  steal- 
ing over  the  meadows  on  sunshiny  Sabbath-days,  while 
waves  under  cloudless  blue  the  peaceful  golden  corn. 
Some  such  feeling  of  exquisite  pleasure  and  content  is 
to  be  had,  too,  from  Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  of  "Our 
Lord  and  the  Little  Children."  You  never  saw  such 
tender  white  faces,  and  solemn  ej^es,  and  sweet  forms  of 
mothers  round  their  little  ones  bending  gracefully. 
These  pictures  come  straight  to  the  heart,  and  then  all 
criticism  and  calculation  vanish  at  once,— for  the  artist 
has  attained  his  great  end,  which  is,  to  strike  far  deeper 
than  the  sight ;  and  we  have  no  business  to  quarrel  about 
defects  in  form  and  colour,  which  are  but  little  parts  of 
the  great  painter's  skill. 


8G8  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Look,  for  instance,  at  another  piece  of  Mr.  Eastlake's, 
called,  somewhat  affectedly,  "  La  Svegliarina."  The 
defects  of  the  painter,  which  one  does  not  condescend  to 
notice  when  he  is  filled  with  a  great  idea,  become  visible 
instantly  when  he  is  only  occupied  with  a  small  one ;  and 
you  see  that  the  hand  is  too  scrupulous  and  finikin,  the 
drawing  weak,  the  flesh  chalky,  and  unreal.  The  very 
same  objections  exist  to  the  other  picture,  but  the  subject 
and  the  genius  overcome  them. 

Passing  from  Mr.  Eastlake's  pictures  to  those  of  a 
greater  genius,  though  in  a  different  line, — look  at  Mr. 
Leslie's  little  pieces.  Can  anything  be  more  simple — 
almost  rude— than  their  manner,  and  more  complete  in 
their  effect  upon  the  spectator?  The  very  soul  of  com- 
edy is  in  them ;  there  is  no  coarseness,  no  exaggeration ; 
but  they  gladden  the  eye,  and  the  merriment  which  they 
excite  cannot  possibly  be  more  pure,  gentlemanlike,  or 
delightful.  ]Mr.  Maclise  has  humour,  too,  and  vast 
powers  of  expressing  it;  but  whisky  is  not  more  differ- 
ent from  rich  burgundy  than  his  fun  from  JNIr.  Leslie's. 
To  our  thinking,  Leslie's  little  head  of  "  Sancho "  is 
worth  the  whole  picture  from  "  Gil  Bias,"  which  hangs 
by  it.  In  point  of  workmanship,  this  is,  perhaps,  the 
best  picture  that  Mr.  Maclise  ever  painted ;  the  colour  is 
far  better  than  that  usually  employed  by  him,  and  the 
representation  of  objects  carried  to  such  an  extent  as  we 
do  believe  was  never  reached  before.  There  is  a  poached 
egg,  which  one  could  swallow ;  a  trout,  that  beats  all  the 
trout  that  was  ever  seen ;  a  copper  pan,  scoured  so  clean 
that  you  might  see  your  face  in  it ;  a  green  blind,  through 
^vhich  the  sun  comes;  and  a  wall,  with  the  sun  shining 
on  it,  that  De  Hooghe  could  not  surpass.  This  young 
man  has  the  greatest  power  of  hand  that  was  ever  had, 


SECOND  LECTURE  ON  FINE  ARTS    369 

perhaps,  by  any  j^ainter  in  any  time  or  country.  What 
does  he  want?  Polish,  I  think;  thought,  and  cultiva- 
tion. His  great  picture  of  "  King  Richard  and  Robin 
Hood"  is  a  wonder  of  dexterity  of  hand;  but  coarse,  I 
think,  and  inefficient  in  humour.  His  models  repeat 
themselves  too  continually.  Allen-a-Dale,  the  harper, 
is  the  very  counterpart  of  Gil  Bias ;  and  Robin  Hooci  is 
only  Apollo  with  whiskers :  the  same  grin,  the  same  dis- 
play of  grinders, — the  same  coarse  luscious  mouth,  be- 
longs to  both.  In  the  large  picture,  everybody  grins, 
and  shows  his  whole  rdtelier;  and  you  look  at  them  and 
say,  "  These  people  seem  all  very  jolly."  Leslie's  char- 
acters do  not  laugh  themselves,  but  they  make  you  laugh ; 
and  this  is  where  the  experienced  American  artist  beats 
the  dashing  young  Irish  one.  We  shall  say  nothing 
of  the  colour  of  INIr.  jNIaclise's  large  picture;  some 
part  appears  to  us  to  be  excellent,  and  the  whole  piece, 
as  far  as  execution  goes,  is  worthy  of  his  amazing  tal- 
ents and  high  reputation.  i\Ir.  jNIaclise  has  but  one 
portrait;  it  is,  perhaps,  the  best  in  the  exhibition: 
sober  in  colour,  wonderful  for  truth,  effect,  and  power 
of  drawing. 

In  speaking  of  portraits,  there  is  never  much  to  say; 
and  they  are  fewer,  and  for  the  most  part  more  indiffer- 
ent, than  usual.  JNIr,  Pickersgill  has  a  good  one,  a  gen- 
tleman in  a  green  chair;  and  one  or  two  outrageously 
bad.  ]Mr.  Phillips's  "  Doctor  Sheppard "  is  a  finely 
painted  head  and  picture ;  his  Lady  Dunraven,  and  her 
son,  as  poor,  ill  drawn,  and  ill  coloured  a  performance  as 
can  possibty  be.  ]Mr.  Wood  has  a  pretty  head;  Mr. 
Stone  a  good  portrait  of  a  very  noble-looking  lady,  the 
Hon.  INIrs.  Blackwood;  Mr.  Bewick  a  good  one;  and 
there  are,  of  course,  manj^  others  whose  names  might  be 


870  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

mentioned  with  praise  or  censure,  but  whom  we  will,  if 
you  please,  pass  over  altogether. 

The  great  advance  of  the  year  is  in  the  small  historical 
compositions,  of  which  there  are  many  that  deserve 
honourable  mention.  Redgrave's  "  Return  of  Olivia  to 
the  Vicar"  has  some  very  pretty  painting  and  feeling 
in  it;  "  Quentin  Matsys,"  by  the  same  artist,  is  tolerably 
good.  D.  Cowper's  "  Othello  relating  his  Adventures," 
really  beautiful;  as  is  Cope's  "Belgian  Family."  All 
these  are  painted  with  grace,  feeling,  and  delicacy ;  as  is 
E.  M.  Ward's  "  Cimabue  and  Giotto"  (there  is  in  Tie- 
polo's  etchings  the  self -same  composition,  by  the  way)  ; 
and  Herbert's  elegant  picture  of  the  "  Brides  of  Ven- 
ice." Mr.  Severn's  composition  from  the  "  Ancient 
JMariner  "  is  a  noble  performance ;  and  the  figure  of  the 
angel  v/ith  raised  arm  awful  and  beautiful  too.  It  does 
good  to  see  such  figures  in  pictures  as  those  and  the 
above,  invented  and  drawn,  —  for  they  belong,  as  we  take 
it,  to  the  best  school  of  art,  of  which  one  is  glad  to  see 
the  daily  spread  among  our  young  painters. 

Mr.  Charles  Landseer's  "  Pillage  of  a  Jew's  House  " 
is  a  very  well  and  carefully  painted  picture,  containing 
a  great  many  figures  and  good  points;  but  we  are  not 
going  to  praise  it :  it  wants  vigour,  to  our  taste,  and  what 
you  call  actualite.  The  people  stretch  their  arms  and 
turn  their  eyes  the  proper  way,  but  as  if  they  were  in  a 
tableau  and  paid  for  standing  there;  one  longs  to  see 
them  all  in  motion  and  naturally  employed. 

I  feel,  I  confess,  a  kind  of  delight  in  finding  out  INIr. 
Edwin  Landseer  in  a  bad  picture;  for  the  man  paints 
so  wonderfully  well,  that  one  is  angry  that  he  does  not 
paint  better,  which  he  might  with  half  his  talent,  and 
without   half  his   facility.      "  Van   Amburgh   and   the 


SECOND  LECTURE  ON  FINE  ARTS     371 

Lions  "  is  a  bad  picture,  and  no  mistake ;  dexterous,  of 
course,  but  flat  and  washy :  the  drawing  even  of  the  ani- 
mals is  careless ;  that  of  the  man  bad,  though  the  head  is 
very  like,  and  very  smartly  painted.  Then  there  are 
other  dog-and-man  portraits;  "Miss  Peel  with  Fido," 
for  instance.  Fido  is  wonderful,  and  so  are  the  sponges, 
and  hair-brushes,  and  looking-glass,  prepared  for  the 
dog's  bath ;  and  the  drawing  of  the  child's  face,  as  far  as 
the  lines  and  expression  go,  is  verj^  good;  but  the  face 
is  covered  with  flesh-coloured  paint,  and  not  flesh,  and 
the  child  looks  like  a  wonderful  doll,  or  imitation  child, 
and  not  a  real  j^oung  lady,  daughter  of  a  gentleman  wlio 
was  prime  minister  last  week  (by-the-by,  my  dear  Bric- 
abrac,  did  you  ever  read  of  such  a  pretty  Whig  game  as 
that,  and  such  a  nice  coup  d'etat?) .  There,  again,  is  the 
beautiful  little  Princess  of  Cambridge,  wdth  a  dog,  and 
a  piece  of  biscuit:  the  dog  and  the  biscuit  are  just  per- 
fection; but  the  princess  is  no  such  thing, — only  a  beau- 
tiful apology  for  a  princess,  like  that  which  Princess 
Penelope  didn't  send  the  other  day  to  the  Lord  JNIayor 
of  London. 

We  have  to  thank  you  (and  not  our  Academy,  which 
has  hung  the  picture  in  a  most  scurvy  way)  for  Mr. 
Schefl*er's  "  Preche  Protestant."  This  fine  composition 
has  been  thrust  down  on  the  ground,  and  trampled  under 
foot,  as  it  were,  by  a  great  number  of  worthless  Academ- 
ics; but  it  merits  one  of  the  very  best  places  in  the  gal- 
lery; and  I  mention  it  to  hint  an  idea  to  your  worship, 
which  only  could  come  from  a  great  mind  like  that  of 
Titmarsh, — to  have,  namely,  some  day  a  great  European 
congress  of  paintings,  which  might  be  exhibited  at  one 
place, — Paris,  say,  as  the  most  central;  or,  better  still, 
travel  about,  under  the  care  of  trusty  superintendents, 


372  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

as  they  might,  without  fear  of  injury.  I  think  such  a 
circuit  would  do  much  to  make  the  brethren  known  to  one 
another,  and  we  should  hear  quickly  of  much  manly  emu- 
lation, and  stout  training  for  the  contest:  If  you  will 
mention  this  to  Louis  Philippe  the  next  time  you  see  that 
roi  citoyen  (mention  it  soon,— for,  egad!  the  next 
emeute  may  be  successful;  and  who  knows  when  it  will 
happen?)  —if  you  will  mention  this  at  the  Tuileries,  we 
will  take  care  of  Saint  James's;  for  I  suppose  that  you 
know,  in  spite  of  the  Whigs,  her  most  sacred  Majesty 
reads  every  word  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  and  will  be  as 
sure  to  see  this  on  the  first  of  next  month,  as  Lord  Mel- 
bourne will  be  to  dine  with  her  on  that  day. 

But  let  us  return  to  our  muttons.  I  think  there  are 
few  more  of  the  oil  pictures  about  which  it  is  necessary 
to  speak;  and  besides  them,  there  are  a  host  of  minia- 
tures, difficult  to  expatiate  upon,  but  pleasing  to  behold. 
There  are  Chalon's  ogling  beauties,  half-a-dozen  of 
them;  and  the  skill  with  which  their  silks  and  satins  are 
dashed  in  by  the  painter  is  a  marvel  to  the  beholder. 
There  are  Ross's  heads,  that  to  be  seen  must  be  seen 
through  a  microscope.  There  is  Saunders,  who  runs  the 
best  of  the  miniature  men  very  hard;  and  Thorburn, 
with  Newton,  Robertson,  Rochard,  and  a  host  of  others : 
and,  finally,  there  is  the  sculpture-room,  containing  many 
pieces  of  clay  and  marble,  and,  to  my  notions,  but  two 
good  things,  a  sleeping  child  (ridiculously  called  the 
Lady  Susan  Somebody),  by  Westmacott;  and  the  bust 
of  Miss  Stuart,  by  Macdonald:  never  was  anything  on 
earth  more  exquisitely  lovely. 

These  things  seen,  take  your  stick  from  the  porter  at 
the  hall  door,  cut  it,  and  go  to  fresh  picture  galleries; 
but  ere  you  go,  just  by  way  of  contrast,  and  to  soothe 


SECOND  LECTURE  ON  FINE  ARTS    373 

your  mind,  after  the  glare  and  bustle  of  the  modern  col- 
lection, take  half-an-hour's  repose  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery; where,  before  the  "Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  you 
may  see  what  the  magic  of  colour  is;  before  "  Christ  and 
Lazarus"  what  is  majestic,  solemn  grace  and  aw^ful 
beauty;  and  before  the  new  "Saint  Catherine"  what  is 
the  real  divinity  of  art.  Oh,  Eastlake  and  Turner!— 
Oh,  Maclise  and  INIulready!  you  are  all  very  nice  men; 
but  what  are  you  to  the  men  of  old  ? 

tf^  7|C  '^"  "Tf  'I* 

Issuing  then  from  the  National  Gallery— you  may  step 
over  to  Farrance's  by  the  way,  if  you  like,  and  sip  an  ice, 
or  bolt  a  couple  of  dozen  forced-meat  balls  in  a  basin  of 
mock-turtle  soup— issuing,  I  say,  from  the  National 
Gallery,  and  after  refreshing  yourself  or  not,  as  your 
purse  or  appetite  permits,  you  arrive  speedily  at  the 
Water-Colour  Exhibition,  and  cannot  do  better  than 
enter.  I  know  nothing  more  cheerful  or  sparkling  than 
the  first  coup  dfoeil  of  this  little  gallery.  In  the  first 
place,  you  never  can  enter  it  without  finding  four  or  five 
pretty  women,  that's  a  fact;  pretty  women  with  pretty 
pink  bonnets  peeping  at  pretty  pictures,  and  with  sweet 
whispers  vowing  that  ]Mrs.  SeyfFarth  is  a  dear  delicious 
painter,  and  that  her  style  is  "so  soft;"  and  that  Miss 
Sharpe  paints  every  bit  as  well  as  her  sister ;  and  that  Mr. 
Jean  Paul  Frederick  Richter  draws  the  loveliest  things, 
to  be  sure,  that  ever  were  seen.  Well,  very  likely  the 
ladies  are  right,  and  it  would  be  unpolite  to  argue  the 
matter;  but  I  wish  Mrs.  Seyfi*arth's  gentlemen  and 
ladies  were  not  so  dreadfully  handsome,  with  such  white 
pillars  of  necks,  such  long  eyes  and  lashes,  and  such  dabs 
of  carmine  at  the  mouth  and  nostrils.  I  wish  Miss 
Sharpe  would  not  paint  Scripture  subjects,  and  Mr. 


374  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Richter  great  goggle-eyed,  red-cheeked,  simpering 
wenches,  whose  ogling  has  become  odious  from  its  repe- 
tition. However,  the  ladies  like  it,  and,  of  course,  must 
have  their  way. 

If  you  want  to  see  real  nature,  now,  real  expression, 
real  startling  home  poetry,  look  at  every  one  of  Hunt's 
heads.  Hogarth  never  painted  anything  better  than 
these  figures,  taken  singly.  That  man  rushing  away 
frightened  from  the  beer-barrel  is  a  noble  head  of  ter- 
ror; that  jMiss  Jemima  Crow,  whose  whole  body  is  a 
grin,  regards  you  with  an  ogle  that  all  the  race  of  Rich- 
ters  could  never  hope  to  imitate.  Look  at  yonder  card- 
players;  they  have  a  penny  pack  of  the  devil's  books, 
and  one  has  just  laid  down  the  king  of  trumps!  I  defy 
you  to  look  at  him  without  laughing,  or  to  examine  the 
wondrous  puzzled  face  of  his  adversary  without  longing 
to  hug  the  greasy  rogue.  Come  hither,  INIr.  Maclise, 
and  see  what  genuine  comedy  is ;  you  who  can  paint  bet- 
ter than  all  the  Plunts  and  Leslies,  and  yet  not  near  so 
well.  If  I  were  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  I  would  have 
a  couple  of  Hunts  in  every  room  in  all  my  houses;  if  I 
had  the  blue-devils  (and  even  their  graces  are,  I  sup- 
pose, occasionally  so  troubled),  I  would  but  cast  my 
eyes  upon  these  grand  good-humoured  pictures,  and 
defy  care.  Who  does  not  recollect  "  Before  and  After 
the  Mutton  Pie,"  the  two  pictures  of  that  wondrous 
boy?  Where  Mr.  Hunt  finds  his  models,  I  cannot  tell; 
they  are  the  very  flower  of  the  British  youth;  each  of 
them  is  as  good  as  "  Sancho; "  blessed  is  he  that  has  his 
portfolio  full  of  them. 

There  is  no  need  to  mention  to  you  the  charming  land- 
scapes of  Cox,  Copley  Fielding,  De  Wint,  Gastineau, 
and  the  rest.    A  new  painter,  somewhat  in  the  style  of 


SECOND  LECTURE  ON  FINE  ARTS      375 

Harding,  is  INIr.  Callow;  and  better,  I  think,  than  his 
master  or  original,  whose  colours  are  too  gaudy  to  my 
taste,  and  effects  too  glaringly  theatrical. 

ISir.  Cattermole  has,  among  others,  two  very  fine 
drawings;  a  large  one,  the  most  finished  and  the  best 
coloured  of  any  which  have  been  exhibited  by  this  fine 
artist;  and  a  smaller  one,  "The  Portrait,"  which  is 
charming.  The  portrait  is  that  of  Jane  Seymour  or 
Anne  Boleyn;  and  Henry  VIII.  is  the  person  examin- 
ing it,  with  the  Cardinal  at  his  side,  the  painter  before 
him,  and  one  or  two  attendants.  The  picture  seems  to 
me  a  perfect  masterpiece,  very  simply  coloured  and  com- 
posed, but  delicious  in  effect  and  tone,  and  telling  the 
story  to  a  wonder.  It  is  much  more  gratifying,  I  think, 
to  let  a  painter  tell  his  own  story  in  this  way,  than  to  bind 
him  down  to  a  scene  of  "Ivanhoe"  or  "Uncle  Toby;" 
or,  worse  still,  to  an  illustration  of  some  wretched  story 
in  some  wretched  fribble  Annual.  Woe  to  the  painter 
who  falls  into  the  hands  of  ]Mr.  Charles  Heath  ( I  speak, 
of  course,  not  of  ]Mr.  Heath  personally,  but  in  a  Pick- 
wickian sense — of  JNIr.  Heath  the  Annual  monger)  ;  he 
ruins  the  young  artist,  sucks  his  brains  out,  emasculates 
his  genius  so  as  to  make  it  fit  company  for  the  pur- 
chasers of  Annuals.  Take,  for  instance,  that  unfortun- 
ate young  man,  Mr.  Corbould,  who  gave  great  promise 
two  years  since,  painted  a  pretty  picture  last  year,  and 
now — he  has  been  in  the  hands  of  the  Annual-mongers, 
and  has  left  well-nigh  all  his  vigour  behind  him.  Nu- 
merous Zuleikas  and  Lalla  Rookhs,  which  are  hanging 
about  the  walls  of  the  Academv  and  the  New  Water- 
Colour  Gallery,  give  lamentable  proofs  of  this:  such 
handsome  Turks  and  leering  sultanas ;  such  Moors,  with 
straight  noses  and  pretty  curled  beards!     Away,  JNIr. 


376  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Corbould !  away  while  it  is  yet  time,  out  of  the  hands  of 
these  sickly  heartless  Annual  sirens !  and  ten  years  hence, 
when  you  have  painted  a  good,  vigorous,  healthy  pic- 
ture, bestow  the  tear  of  gratitude  upon  Titmarsh,  who 
tore  you  from  the  lap  of  your  crimson-silk-  and  gilt- 
edged  Armida. 

Mr.  Cattermole  has  a  couple,  we  will  not  say  of  imita- 
tors, but  of  friends,  who  admire  his  works  very  much; 
these  are,  Mr.  Nash  and  Mr.  Lake  Price;  the  former 
paints  furniture  and  old  houses,  the  latter  old  houses  and 
furniture,  and  both  very  pretty.  No  harm  can  be  said 
of  these  miniature  scene-painters;  on  the  contrary,  Mr. 
Price's  "  Gallery  at  Hardwicke  "  is  really  remarkably 
dexterous;  and  the  chairs,  tables,  curtains,  and  pictures 
are  nicked  off  with  extraordinary  neatness  and  sharp- 
ness— and  then?  why  then,  no  more  is  to  be  said.  Cobalt, 
sepia,  and  a  sable  pencil  will  do  a  deal  of  work,  to  be 
sure;  and  very  pretty  it  is,  too,  when  done:  and  as  for 
finding  fault  with  it,  that  nobody  will  and  can;  but  an 
artist  wants  something  more  than  sepia,  cobalt,  and  sable 
pencils,  and  the  knowledge  how  to  use  them.  What  do 
you  think,  my  dear  Bricabrac,  of  a  little  genius? — that's 
the  picture-painter,  depend  on  it. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  water-colours,  we  may  as  well 
step  into  the  New  Water- Colour  Exhibition:  not  so 
good  as  the  old,  but  very  good.  You  will  see  here  a  large 
drawing  by  Mr.  Corbould  of  a  tournament,  which  will 
show  at  once  how  clever  that  young  artist  is,  and  how 
weak  and  maniere.  You  will  see  some  charming  unaf- 
fected English  landscapes  by  Mr.  Sims;  and  a  capital 
Spanisli  Girl  by  Hicks,  of  which  the  flesh-painting  can- 
not be  too  much  approved.    It  is  done  without  the  heavy 


SECOND   LECTURE   ON   FINE   ARTS    377 

white,  with  which  water-colour  artists  are  now  wont  to 
belabour  their  pictures;  and  is,  therefore,  frankly  and 
clearly  painted,  as  all  transparent  water-colour  drawing 
must  be.  The  same  praise  of  clearness,  boldness,  and 
depth  of  tone  must  be  given  to  ]Mr.  Absolon,  who  uses 
no  white,  and  only  just  so  much  stippling  as  is  neces- 
sary; his  picture  has  the  force  of  oil,  and  we  should  be 
glad  to  see  his  manner  more  followed. 

Mr.  Haghe's  "  Town  Hall  of  Courtray "  has  at- 
tracted, and  deservedly,  a  great  deal  of  notice.  It  is  a 
very  fine  and  masterly  architectural  drawing,  rich  and 
sombre  in  effect,  the  figures  introduced  being  very 
nearly  as  good  as  the  rest  of  the  picture.  Mr.  Haghe, 
we  suppose,  will  be  called  to  the  upper  house  of  water- 
colour  painters,  who  might  well  be  anxious  to  receive 
into  their  ranks  many  persons  belonging  to  the  new  so- 
ciety. We  hope,  however,  the  latter  will  be  faithful  to 
themselves;  there  is  plenty  of  room  for  two  galleries, 
and  the  public  must,  ere  long,  learn  to  appreciate  the 
merits  of  the  new  one.  Having  spoken  a  word  in  favour 
of  Mr.  Johnston's  pleasing  and  quaintly  coloured  South 
American  sketches,  we  have  but  to  bend  our  steps  to  Suf- 
folk Street,  and  draw  this  discourse  to  a  close. 

Here  is  a  very  fine  picture  indeed,  by  Mr.  Hurlstone, 
"  Olympia  attacked  by  Bourbon's  Soldiers  in  Saint  Pe- 
ter's and  flying  to  the  Cross."  Seen  from  the  further 
room,  this  picture  is  grand  in  effect  and  colour,  and  the 
rush  of  the  armed  men  towards  the  girl  finely  and  vigor- 
ously expressed.  The  head  of  Olympia  has  been  called 
too  calm  by  the  critics;  it  seems  to  me  most  beautiful, 
and  the  action  of  the  figure  springing  forward  and 
flinging  its  arms  round  the  cross  nobly  conceived  and 
executed.    There  is  a  good  deal  of  fine  Titianic  painting 


378  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

in  the  soldiers'  figures  (oh,  that  Mr.  Hurlstone  would 
throw  away  his  lampblack!) ,  and  the  background  of  the 
church  is  fine,  vast,  and  gloomy.  This  is  the  best  his- 
torical j)icture  to  be  seen  anywhere  this  year;  perhaps 
the  worst  is  the  one  which  stands  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  which  strikes  upon  the  eye  as  if  it  were  an 
immense  water-colour  sketch  of  a  feeble  picture  by 
President  West.  Speaking  of  historical  paintings,  I 
forgot  to  mention  a  large  and  fine  picture  by  Mr.  Dyce, 
the  "Separation  of  Edwy  and  Elgiva;"  somewhat 
crude  and  odd  in  colour,  with  a  good  deal  of  exaggera- 
tion in  the  countenances  of  the  figures,  but  having 
grandeur  in  it,  and  unmistakable  genius;  there  is  a 
figure  of  an  old  woman  seated,  which  would  pass  muster 
very  well  in  a  group  of  Sebastian  Piombo. 

A  capitally  painted  head  by  ]Mr.  Stone,  called  the 
"  Swordbearer,"  almost  as  fresh,  bright,  and  vigorous 
as  a  Vandyke,  is  the  portrait,  we  believe,  of  a  brother 
artist,  the  clever  actor  Mr.  MTan.  The  latter's  picture 
of  "  Sir  Tristram  in  the  Cave  "  deserves  especial  remark 
and  praise;  and  is  really  as  fine  a  dramatic  composition 
as  one  will  often  see.  The  figures  of  the  knight  and  the 
lady  asleep  in  the  foreground  are  novel,  striking,  and 
beautifully  easy.  The  advance  of  the  old  king,  who 
comes  upon  the  lovers;  the  look  of  the  hideous  dwarf, 
who  finds  them  out;  and  behind,  the  line  of  spears  that 
are  seen  glancing  over  the  rocks,  and  indicating  the 
march  of  the  unseen  troops,  are  all  very  well  conceived 
and  arranged.  The  piece  deserves  engraving;  it  is  wild, 
poetic,  and  original.  To  how  many  pictures,  nowadays, 
can  one  apply  the  two  last  terms  ? 

There  are  some  more  new  pictures,  in  the  midst  of  a 
great  quantity  of  trash,  that  deserve  notice.     ]Mr.  D. 


SECOND   LECTURE   ON  FINE   ARTS    379 

Cowper  is  always  good;  Mr.  Stewart's  "Grandfather" 

contains  two  excellent  likenesses,  and  is  a  pleasing  little 

picture.     jNIr.  Hurlstone's  "  Italian  Boy,"  and  "  Girl 

with  a  Dog,"  are  excellent;  and,  in  this  pleasant  mood, 

for  fear  of  falling  into  an  angry  fit  on  coming  to  look 

further  into  the  gallery,  it  will  be  as  well  to  conclude. 

Wishing  many  remembrances  to  IMrs.  Bricabrac,  and 

better  luck  to  you  in  the  next  emeutej  I  beg  here  to  bid 

you  farewell  and  entreat  you  to  accept  the  assurances  of 

my  distinguished  consideration. 

M.  A.  T. 

Au  CiTOYEN  Brutus  Napoleon  Bricabrac,  Refugie 
d'Avril,  Blesse  de  Mai,  Condamne  de  Juin,  Decore 
de  Juillet,  ^~c.  ^c.    Hotel  Dieu,  a  Paris. 

{Fraser's  Magazine,  June  1839.) 


A  PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY  BY   MICHAEL 
ANGELO  TITMARSH 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  LETTER  TO  MR.  YORKE 

MY  DEAR  YORKE,— Do  you  remember  the  or- 
ders which  you  gave  me  at  the  close  of  our  dinner 
last  week  at  the  Clarendon?— that  dinner  which  you  al- 
ways provide  upon  my  arrival  in  town  from  my  country- 
seat;  knowing  full  well  that  Titmarsh  before  he  works 
must  dine,  and  when  he  dines,  must  dine  well?  Do  you, 
I  say,  remember  the  remarks  which  you  addressed  to  me  ? 
Probably  not ;  for  that  third  bottle  of  Clos-Vougeot  had 
evidently  done  your  business,  and  you  were  too  tipsy, 
even  to  pay  the  bill. 

Well,  let  bills  be  bills,  and  what  care  we?  There  is 
Mr.  James  Eraser,  our  employer,  master,  publisher, 
purse-bearer,  and  friend,  who  has  such  a  pleasure  in 
paying  that  it  is  a  pity  to  baulk  him ;  and  I  never  saw  a 
man  look  more  happy  than  he  when  he  lugged  out  four 
five-pound  notes  to  pay  for  that  dinner  of  ours.  What 
a  scene  it  was !  You  asleep  with  your  head  in  a  dish  of 
melted  raspberry-ice;  Mr.  Eraser  calm,  beneficent,  ma- 
jestic, counting  out  the  thirteens  to  the  waiters;  the  Doc- 
tor and  Mr.  John  Abraham  Heraud  singing  "  Suoni  la 
tromba  intrepida,"  each  clutching  the  other's  hand,  and 
waving  a  punch-ladle  or  a  dessert-knife  in  the  unem- 
ployed paw,  and  the  rest  of  us  joining  in  chorus  when 
they  came  to  "  gridando  liberta."— But  I  am  wandering 


A  PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY  881 

from  the  point:  the  address  which  you  dehvered  to  me 
on  drinkinff  mv  health  was  in  substance  this: — 

"  ]VIr.  ]Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  the  splendid  feast  of 
which  you  have  partaken,  and  the  celebrated  company 
of  individuals  whom  you  see  around  you,  will  show  you 
in  what  estimation  myself  and  JNIr.  Fraser  hold  your  tal- 
ents,— not  that  the  latter  point  is  of  any  consequence, 
as  I  am  the  sole  editor  of  the  JNIagazine.  Sir,  you  have 
been  called  to  the  metropolis  from  a  very  distant  part  of 
the  country,  your  coach-hire  and  personal  expenses  have 
been  defrayed,  you  have  been  provided  with  a  suit  of 
clothes  that  ought  to  become  you,  for  they  have  been  for 
at  least  six  months  the  wonder  of  the  town  while  exhib- 
ited on  my  own  person ;  and  you  may  well  fancy  that  all 
these  charges  have  not  been  incurred  on  our  parts,  with- 
out an  expectation  of  some  corresponding  return  from 
you.  You  are  a  devilish  bad  painter,  sir ;  but  never  mind, 
Hazlitt  was  another,  and  old  Peter  Pindar  was  a  mis- 
erable dauber;  Mr.  Alexander  Pope,  who  wTote  several 
pretty  poems,  was  always  busy  wdth  brush  and  palette, 
and  made  sad  work  of  them.  You,  then,  in  common  with 
these  before-named  illustrations,  as  my  friend.  Lady 
Morgan,  calls  them  [Sir  Charles  returned  thanks],  are 
a  wretched  artist;  but  a  tolerable  critic — nay,  a  good 
critic — nay,  let  me  say  to  your  face,  the  best  critic,  the 
clearest,  the  soundest,  the  gayest,  the  most  eloquent,  the 
most  pathetic,  and,  above  all,  the  most  honest  critic  in 
matters  of  art  that  is  to  be  found  in  her  INIajesty's  do- 
minions. And,  therefore,  ]\Ir.  Titmarsh,  for  we  must 
give  the  deuce  his  due,  you  have  been  brought  from  your 
cottage  near  John  O'Groat's  or  Land's  End,— I  forget 
which, — therefore  you  have  been  summoned  to  London 
at  the  present  season. 


882  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

"  Sir,  there  are  at  this  moment  no  less  than  five  public 
exhibitions  of  pictures  in  the  metropolis;  and  it  will  be 
your  duty  carefully  to  examine  every  one  of  them  dur- 
ing your  residence  here,  and  bring  us  a  full  and  accurate 
report  upon  all  the  pieces  exhibited  which  are  remark- 
able for  goodness,  badness,  or  mediocrity." 

I  here  got  up ;  and,  laying  my  hand  on  my  satin  waist- 
coat, looked  up  to  heaven,  and  said,  "  Sir,  I — " 

"  Sit  down,  sir,  and  keep  your  eternal  wagging  jaws 
quiet !  Waiter !  whenever  that  person  attempts  to  speak, 
have  the  goodness  to  fill  his  mouth  with  olives  or  a  dam- 
son cheese.  —  To  proceed.  Sir,  and  you,  gentlemen,  and 
you,  O  intelligent  public  of  Great  Britain!  (for  I  know 
that  every  word  I  say  is  in  some  way  carried  to  you)  you 
must  all  be  aware,  I  say,  how  wickedly, — how  foully, 
basely,  meanly — how,  in  a  word,  with-every-deteriora- 
ting-adverb  that  ends  in  ly — in  ly,  gentlemen  [here  Mr. 
Yorke  looked  round,  and  myself  and  Mr.  Eraser,  rather 
alarmed  lest  we  should  have  let  slip  a  pun,  began  to  raise 
a  low  faint  laugh] — you  have  all  of  you  seen  how  the 
world  has  been  imposed  upon  by  persons  calling  them- 
selves critics,  who,  in  daily,  weekly,  monthly  prints,  pro- 
trude their  nonsense  upon  the  town.  What  are  these 
men?  Are  they  educated  to  be  painters? — No!  Have 
they  a  taste  for  painting? — No!  I  know  of  newspapers 
in  this  town,  gentlemen,  which  send  their  reporters  in- 
differently to  a  police  office  or  a  picture  gallery,  and 
expect  them  to  describe  Correggio  or  a  fire  in  Fleet 
Street  with  equal  fidelity.  And,  alas!  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  our  matter-of-fact  public  of  England  is  it- 
self but  a  dull  appreciator  of  the  arts,  and  is  too  easity 
persuaded  by  the  dull  critics  who  lay  down  their  stupid 
laws.     • 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  883 

"  But  we  cannot  expect,  IMr.  Titmarsh,  to  do  any  good 
to  our  beloved  public  by  telling  them  merely  that  their 
instructors  are  impostors.  Abuse  is  no  argument,  foul 
words  admit  of  no  pretence  (you  may  have  remarked 
that  I  never  use  them  myself,  but  always  employ  the  arts 
of  gentlemanly  persuasion) ,  and  we  must  endeavour  to 
create  a  reform  amongst  the  nations  by  simply  preach- 
ing a  purer  and  higher  doctrine.  Go  you  among  the 
picture  galleries,  as  you  have  done  in  former  years,  and 
prattle  on  at  your  best  rate ;  don't  philosophise,  or  define, 
or  talk  big,  for  I  will  cut  out  every  line  of  such  stuff, 
but  speak  in  a  simple  natural  way,— without  fear,  and 
without  favour. 

"Mark  that  latter  word  'favour'  well;  for  you  are  a 
great  deal  too  tender  in  your  nature,  and  too  profuse  of 
compliments.  Favour,  sir,  is  the  curse  of  the  critical 
trade;  and  you  will  observe  how  a  spirit  of  camaraderie 
and  partisanship  prevails  in  matters  of  art  especially. 
The  picture-critics,  as  I  have  remarked,  are  eminently 
dull — dull  and  loud;  perfectly  ignorant  upon  all  sub- 
jects connected  with  art,  never  able  to  guess  at  the  name 
of  an  artist  without  a  catalogue  and  a  number,  quite  un- 
knowing whether  a  picture  be  well  or  ill  drawn,  well  or 
ill  painted:  they  must  prate,  nevertheless,  about  light 
and  shade,  warm  and  cool  colour,  keeping,  chiaroscuro, 
and  such  other  terms,  from  the  Painters'  Cant  Diction- 
ary, as  they  hear  bandied  about  among  the  brethren  of 
the  brush. 

"  You  will  observe  that  such  a  critic  has  ordinarily  his 
one  or  two  idols  that  he  worships ;  the  one  or  two  paint- 
ers, namely,  into  whose  studios  he  has  free  access,  and 
from  whose  opinions  he  forms  his  own.  There  is  Dash, 
for  instance,  of  the  Star  newspaper;  now  and  anon  you 


884  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

hear  him  discourse  of  the  fine  arts,  and  you  may  take 
your  affidavit  that  he  has  just  issued  from  Blank's 
atelier:  all  Blank's  opinions  he  utters — utters  and 
garbles,  of  course ;  all  his  likings  are  founded  on  Blank's 
dicta,  and  all  his  dislikings :  'tis  probable  that  Blank  has 
a  rival,  one  Asterisk,  living  over  the  way.  In  Dash's 
eye  Asterisk  is  the  lowest  of  creatures.  At  every  fresh 
exhibition  you  read  how  '  Mr.  Blank  has  transcended  his 
already  transcendent  reputation ; '  '  Myriads  are  throng- 
ing round  his  glorious  canvases ; '  '  Billions  have  been 
trampled  to  death  while  rushing  to  examine  his  grand 
portrait  of  Lady  Smigsmag ; '  '  His  picture  of  Sir  Claude 
Calipash  is  a  gorgeous  representation  of  aldermanic 
dignity  and  high  chivalric  grace ! '  As  for  Asterisk,  you 
are  told,  'Mr.  Asterisk  has  two  or  three  pictures — 
pretty,  but  weak,  repetitions  of  his  old  faces  and  sub- 
jects in  his  old  namby-pamby  style.  The  Committee,  we 
hear,  rejected  most  of  his  pictures:  the  Committee  are 
very  compassionate.  How  dared  they  reject  Mr. 
Blank's  stupendous  historical  picture  of  So-and-so?'" 

[Here,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  there  was 
a  general  snore  heard  from  the  guests  round  the  table, 
which  rather  disturbed  the  flow  of  your  rhetoric.  You 
swallowed  down  two  or  three  pints  of  burgundy,  how- 
ever, and  continued.] 

"  But  I  must  conclude.  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh, 
you  know  your  duty.  You  are  an  honest  man  [loud 
cheers,  the  people  had  awakened  during  the  pause] .  You 
must  go  forth  determined  to  tell  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth ;  as  far  as  you,  a  fallible 
creature  [cries  of  '  No,  no! ']  know  it.  If  you  see  a  good 
picture,  were  it  the  work  of  your  bitterest  enemy— and 
you  have  hundreds— praise  it." 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  385 

"  I  will,"  gasped  I. 

"  Hold  3'our  tongue,  sir,  and  don't  be  interrupting  me 
with  your  perpetual  orations!  If  you  see  a  bad  picture, 
were  it  the  work  of  your  dearest  associate,  your  brother, 
the  friend  of  your  bosom,  your  benefactor— cut,  slash, 
slaughter  him  without  mercy.  Strip  off  humbug,  sir, 
though  it  cover  your  best  boon-companion.  Praise  merit, 
though  it  belong  to  your  fiercest  foe,  your  rival  in  the  af- 
fections of  your  mistress,  the  man  from  whom  you  have 
borrowed  money,  or  taken  a  beating  in  private! " 

"  Mr.  Yorke,"  said  I,  clenching  my  fists  and  starting 

up,  "this  passes  endurance,  were  you  not  intox ;" 

but  two  waiters  here  seized  and  held  me  down,  luckily 
for  you. 

"Peace,  Titmarsh  "  (said  you)  ;  "'twas  but  raillery. 
Be  honest,  my  friend,  is  all  that  I  would  say;  and  if  you 
write  a  decent  article  on  the  exhibitions,  Mr.  Fraser  will 
pay  you  handsomely  for  your  trouble ;  and,  in  order  that 
you  may  have  every  facility  for  visiting  the  picture  gal- 
leries, I  myself  will  give  you  a  small  sum  in  hand.  Here 
are  ten  shillings.  Five  exhibitions,  five  shillings;  cata- 
logues, four.  You  will  have  twelve  pence  for  yourself, 
to  take  refreshments  in  the  intervals." 

I  held  out  my  hand,  for  my  anger  had  quite  disap- 
peared. 

"  Mr.  Fraser,"  said  you,  "  give  the  fellow  half-a-sov- 
ereign;  and,  for  Heaven's  sake,  teach  him  to  be  silent 
when  a  gentleman  is  speaking!" 

What  passed  subsequently  need  not  be  stated  here, 
but  the  above  account  of  your  speech  is  a  pretty  correct 
one;  and,  in  pursuance  of  your  orders,  I  busied  myself 
with  the  exhibitions  on  the  following  day.  The  result 
of  my  labours  will  be  found  in  the  accompanying  report. 


386  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

I  have  the  honour,  sir,  of  laying  it  at  your  feet,  and  of 
subscribing  myself. 

With  the  prof  oundest  respect  and  devotion, 

Sir, 
Your  very  faithful  and  obedient  Servant, 

Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh. 

Morelancfs  Coffee  House,  Dean  Street,  8oho. 


PA^QtAIA  ^  rPAMMA  A'. 

The  Royal  Academy. 

Had  the  author  of  the  following  paragraphs  the  pen  of 
a  Sir  Walter  Scott  or  a  Lady  Morgan,  he  would  write 
something  excessively  brilliant  and  witty  about  the  first 
day  of  the  exhibition,  and  of  the  company  which  crowd 
the  rooms  upon  that  occasion.  On  Friday  the  queen 
comes  (Heaven  bless  her  Majesty!)  attended  by  her 
courtiers  and  train;  and  deigns,  with  royal  eyes,  to  ex- 
amine the  works  of  her  Royal  Academicians.  Her,  as 
we  are  given  to  understand,  the  president  receives,  bow- 
ing profoundly,  awe-stricken;  his  gold  chain  dangles 
from  his  presidential  bosom,  and  sweet  smiles  of  respect- 
ful courtesy  light  up  his  venerable  face.  Walking  by 
her  Majesty's  side,  he  explains  to  her  the  wonders  of  the 
show.  *'  That,  may  it  please  your  Majesty,  is  a  picture 
representing  yourself,  painted  by  the  good  knight.  Sir 
David  Wilkie:  deign  to  remark  how  the  robes  seem  as  if 
they  were  cut  out  of  British  oak,  and  the  figure  is  as 
wooden  as  the  figurehead  of  one  of  your  Majesty's  men- 
of-war.  Opposite  is  your  Majesty's  royal  consort,  by 
Mr.  Patten.  We  have  the  honour  to  possess  two  more 
pairs  of  Pattens  in  this  Academy— ha,  ha !    Round  about 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  887 

you  will  see  some  of  my  own  poor  works  of  art.  Yonder 
is  JNIr.  Landseer's  portrait  of  your  ]\Iajesty's  own  cocka- 
too, with  a  brace  of  Havadavats.  Please  your  Royal 
Highness  to  look  at  the  bit  of  biscuit ;  no  baker  could  have 
done  it  more  natural.  Fair  maid  of  honour,  look  at  that 
lump  of  sugar;  couldn't  one  take  an  affidavit,  now,  that 
it  cost  elevenpence  a  pound?  Isn't  it  sweet?  I  know 
only  one  thing  sweeter,  and  that's  your  ladyship's  lovely 
face!" 

In  such  lively  conversation  might  we  fancy  a  bland 
president  discoursing.  The  queen  should  make  august 
replies ;  the  lovelj^  smiling  maids  of  honour  should  utter 
remarks  becoming  their  innocence  and  station  (turning 
away  very  red  from  that  corner  of  the  apartment  where 
hang  certain  Venuses  and  Andromedas,  painted  by  Wil- 
liam Etty,  Esquire)  ;  the  gallant  prince,  a  lordly,  hand- 
some gentleman,  with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  should 
curl  the  dark  moustache  that  adorns  his  comely  lip,  and 
say,  "  Potztausend !  but  dat  bigture  of  First  Loaf  by  Herr 
von  Mulreadj^  ist  wunderschon ! "  and  courtly  chamber- 
lains, prim  goldsticks,  and  sly  polonaises  of  the  Court 
should  take  their  due  share  in  the  gay  scene,  and  deliver 
their  portions  of  the  dialogue  of  the  little  drama. 

All  this,  I  say,  might  be  done  in  a  very  sprightly  neat 
way,  were  poor  Titmarsh  an  Ainsworth  or  a  Lady  ]Mor- 
gan;  and  the  scene  might  be  ended  smartly  with  the 
knighting  of  one  of  the  Academicians  by  her  Majesty 
on  the  spot.  As  thus:  —  "  The  royal  party  had  stood  for 
three-and-twenty  minutes  in  mute  admiration  before  that 
tremendous  picture  by  Mr.  Maclise,  representing  the 
banquet  in  the  hall  of  Dunsinane.  '  Gory  shadow  of 
Banquo,'  said  Lady  Almeria  to  Lady  Wilhelmina,  '  how 
hideous  thou  art ! '    '  Hideous !  hideous  yourself,  marry ! ' 


888  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

replied  the  arch  and  lovely  Wilhelmina.  '  By  my  hali- 
dome!'  whispered  the  seneschal  to  the  venerable  prime 
minister,  Lord  Melborough— 'by  cock  and  pie,  Sir 
Count,  but  it  seems  me  that  yon  Scottish  kerne,  Macbeth, 
hath  a  shrewd  look  of  terror ! '  '  And  a  marvellous  un- 
kempt beard,'  answered  the  Earl ;  '  and  a  huge  mouth 
gaping  wide  for  very  terror,  and  a  hand  palsied  with 
fear.'  'Hoot  awa,  mon!'  cried  an  old  Scots  general, 
'  but  the  chield  Macbeth  (I'm  descanded  from  him  leene- 
ally  in  the  saxty -ninth  generation)  knew  hoo  to  wield  a 
guid  claymore ! '  '  His  hand  looks  as  if  it  had  dropped 
a  hot  potato ! '  whispered  a  roguish  page,  and  the  little 
knave's  remark  caused  a  titter  to  run  through  the  courtly 
circle,  and  brought  a  smile  upon  the  cheek  of  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Academy ;  who,  sooth  to  say,  had  been  twid- 
dling his  chain  of  office  between  his  finger  and  thumb, 
somewhat  jealous  of  the  praise  bestowed  upon  his  young 
rival. 

"'My  Lord  of  Wellington,'  said  her  Majesty,  'lend 
me  your  word.'  The  veteran,  smiling,  drew  forth  that 
trenchant  sabre, — that  spotless  blade  of  battle  that  had 
flashed  victorious  on  the  plains  of  far  Assaye,  in  the 
breach  of  storm-girt  Badajoz,  in  the  mighty  and  supreme 
combat  of  Waterloo !  A  tear  stood  in  the  hero's  eye  as  he 
fell  on  his  gartered  knee ;  and  holding  the  blade  between 
his  finger  and  thumb,  he  presented  the  hilt  to  his  liege 
lady.  '  Take  it,  madam,'  said  he;  '  sheathe  it  in  this  old 
breast,  if  you  will,  for  my  heart  and  sword  are  my 
sovereign's.  Take  it,  madam,  and  be  not  angry  if  there 
is  blood  upon  the  steel — 'tis  the  blood  of  the  enemies  of 
my  country ! '  The  queen  took  it ;  and  as  the  young  and 
delicate  creature  waved  that  tremendous  war-sword,  a 
gentleman  near  her  remarked,  that  surely  never  lighted 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  389 

on  the  earth  a  more  delightful  vision.  '  Where  is  Mr. 
Maclise?'  said  her  Majesty.  The  blushing  painter 
stepped  forward.  '  Kneel !  kneel ! '  whispered  fifty 
voices;  and  frightened,  he  did  as  they  ordered  him. 
'  Sure  she's  not  going  to  cut  my  head  off?'  he  cried  to- 
the  good  knights,  Sir  Augustus  Callcott  and  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  who  were  standing.  'Your  name,  sir?'  said 
the  Ladye  of  England.  '  Sure  you  know^  it's  Maclise!' 
cried  the  son  of  Erin.  '  Your  Christian  name  ? '  shrieked 
Sir  ^lartin  Shee,  in  agony.  '  Christian  name,  is  it  ?  Oh, 
then  it's  Daniel  JMalcolm,  your  JNIajesty,  and  much  at 
j^our  service!'  She  waved  the  sword  majestically  over 
his  head,  and  said,  '  Rise  up.  Sir  ^lalcolm  JNIaclise ! ' 

*T*  '1^  '^*  '^'  Vf* 

"The  ceremony  w^as  concluded,  the  brilliant  cortege 
moved  away,  the  royal  barouches  received  the  illustrious 
party,  the  heralds  cried, '  Largesse,  Largesse ! '  and  flung 
silver  pennies  among  the  shouting  crowds  in  Trafal- 
gar Square;  and  when  the  last  man-at-arms  that  accom- 
panied the  royal  train  had  disappeared,  the  loud  vivas 
of  the  crowd  were  heard  no  more,  the  shrill  song  of  the 
silver  clarions  had  died  away,  his  brother  painters  con- 
gratulated the  newly-dubbed  chevalier,  and  retired  to 
partake  of  a  slight  collation  of  bread  and  cheese  and  por- 
ter in  the  keeper's  apartments." 

Were  we,  I  say,  inclined  to  be  romantic,  did  we  dare  to 
be  imaginative,  such  a  scene  might  be  depicted  with  con- 
siderable effect;  but,  as  it  is,  we  must  not  allow  poor 
fancy  to  get  the  better  of  reason,  and  declare  that  to 
write  anything  of  the  sort  would  be  perfectly  uncalled 
for  and  absurd.  Let  it  simply  be  stated  that,  on  the 
Friday,  her  Majesty  comes  and  goes.  On  the  Saturday 
the  Academicians  have  a  private  view  for  the  great  per- 


890  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

sonages;  the  lords  of  the  empire  and  their  ladies,  the 
editors  of  the  newspapers  and  their  friends;  and,  after 
they  have  seen  as  much  as  possible,  about  seven  o'clock 
the  Academicians  give  a  grand  feed  to  their  friends  and 
patrons. 

In  the  arrangement  of  this  banquet,  let  us  say  roundly 
that  Messieurs  de- 1' Academic  are  vastly  too  aristocratic. 
Why  were  we  not  asked  ?  The  dinner  is  said  to  be  done 
by  Gunter ;  and,  though  the  soup  and  fish  are  notoriously 
cold  and  uncomfortable,  we  are  by  no  means  squeamish, 
and  would  pass  over  this  gross  piece  of  neglect.  We 
long,  too,  to  hear  a  bishop  say  grace,  and  to  sit  cheek 
by  jowl  with  a  duke  or  two.  Besides,  we  could  make 
some  return;  a  good  joke  is  worth  a  plateful  of  turtle; 
a  smart  brisk  pun  is  quite  as  valuable  as  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne; a  neat  anecdote  deserves  a  slice  of  venison,  with 
plenty  of  fat  and  currant  jelly,  and  so  on.  On  such 
principles  of  barter  we  might  be  disposed  to  treat.  But 
a  plague  on  this  ribaldry  and  beating  about  the  bush! 

let  us  leave  the  plates,  and  come  at  once  to  the  pictures. 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

^*  rj\  ^[s  y^  ^JS 

Once  or  twice  before,  in  the  columns  of  this  Maga- 
zine, we  have  imparted  to  the  public  our  notions  about 
Greek  art,  and  its  manifold  deadly  errors.  The  contem- 
plation of  such  specimens  of  it  as  we  possess  hath  always, 
to  tell  the  truth,  left  us  in  a  state  of  unpleasant  wonder- 
ment and  perplexity.  It  carries  corporeal  beauty  to  a 
pitch  of  painful  perfection,  and  deifies  the  body  and 
bones  truly:  but,  by  dint  of  sheer  beauty,  it  leaves  hu- 
manity altogether  inhuman — quite  heartless  and  passion- 
less. Look  at  Apollo  tlie  divine:  there  is  no  blood  in 
his  marble  veins,  no  warmth  in  his  bosom,  no  fire  or  spec- 
ulation in  his  dull  awful  eyes.     Laocoon  writhes  and 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  391 

twists  in  an  anguish  that  never  can,  in  the  breast  of  any 
spectator,  create  the  smallest  degree  of  pity.    Diana, 

"  La  chasseresse 
Blanche,  au  sein  virginal, 
Qui  presse 
Quelque  cerf  matinal,"  ^ 

may  run  from  this  till  Doomsday ;  and  we  feel  no  desire 
to  join  the  cold  passionless  huntress  in  her  ghostly  chase. 
Such  monsters  of  beauty  are  quite  out  of  the  reach  of 
human  sympathy:  they  were  purposely  (by  the  poor  be- 
nighted heathens  who  followed  this  error,  and  strove  to 
make  their  error  as  grand  as  possible)  placed  beyond  it. 
They  seemed  to  think  that  human  joy  and  sorrow,  passion 
and  love,  were  mean  and  contemptible  in  themselves. 
Their  gods  were  to  be  calm,  and  share  in  no  such  feelings. 
How  much  grander  is  the  character  of  the  Christian 
school,  which  teaches  that  love  is  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  things,  and  the  first  and  highest  element  of  beauty 
in  art! 

I  don't  know,  madam,  whether  I  make  myself  clearly 
understood  in  saying  so  much ;  but  if  j^ou  will  have  the 
kindness  to  look  at  a  certain  little  picture  by  Mr.  East- 
lake  in  this  ffallerv,  vou  will  see  to  what  the  observation 
applies,  and  that  out  of  a  homety  subject,  and  a  few 
simple  figures  not  at  all  wonderful  for  excessive  beauty 
or  grandeur,  the  artist  can  make  something  infinitely 
more  beautiful  than  INIedicean  Venuses,  and  sublimer 
than  Pythian  Apollos.  Happy  are  you,  Charles  Lock 
Eastlake,  Esquire,  R.A. !  I  think  you  have  in  your 
breast  some  of  that  sacred  fire  that  lighted  the  bosom 
of  Raphael  Sanctius,  Esquire,  of  Urbino,  he  being  a 

'  Alfred  de  Musset. 


392  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

young  man, — a  holy  kind  of  Sabbath  repose— a  calm 
that  comes  not  of  feeling,  but  of  the  overflowing  of  it — 
a  tender  yearning  sympathy  and  love  for  God's  beauti- 
ful world  and  creatures.  Impelled  by  such  a  delightful 
sentiment,  the  gentle  spirit  of  him  in  whom  it  dwells 
(like  the  angels  of  old,  who  first  taught  us  to  receive  the 
doctrine  that  love  was  the  key  to  the  world)  breathes 
always  peace  on  earth  and  good  will  towards  men.  And 
though  the  privilege  of  enjoying  this  happy  frame  of 
mind  is  accorded  to  the  humblest  as  well  as  the  most 
gifted  genius,  yet  the  latter  must  remember  that  the  in- 
tellect can  exercise  itself  in  no  higher  way  than  in  the 
practice  of  this  kind  of  adoration  and  gratitude.  The 
great  artist  who  is  the  priest  of  nature  is  consecrated 
especialty  to  this  service  of  praise;  and  though  it  may 
have  no  direct  relation  to  religious  subjects,  the  view  of 
a  picture  of  the  highest  order  does  alwaj^s,  like  the  view 
of  stars  in  a  calm  night,  or  a  fair  quiet  landscape  in  sun- 
shine, fill  the  mind  with  an  inexpressible  content  and 
gratitude  towards  the  Maker  who  has  created  such  beau- 
tiful things  for  our  use. 

And  as  the  poet  has  told  us  how,  not  out  of  a  wide 
landscape  merely,  or  a  sublime  expanse  of  glittering 
stars,  but  of  any  very  humble  thing,  we  may  gather  the 
same  delightful  reflections  (as  out  of  a  small  flower, 
that  brings  us  "  thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 
tears  ")  —in  like  maimer  we  do  not  want  grand  pictures 
and  elaborate  yards  of  canvas  so  to  affect  us,  as  the  lover 
of  drawing  must  have  felt  in  looking  at  the  Raphael 
designs  lately  exhibited  in  London.  These  were  little 
faint  scraps,  mostly  from  the  artist's  pencil — small 
groups,  unfinished  single  figures,  just  indicated;  but  the 
divine  elements  of  beauty  were  as  strong  in  them  as  in 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  893 

the  grandest  pieces :  and  there  were  many  httle  sketches, 
not  half-an-inch  high,  which  charmed  and  affected  one 
hke  the  violet  did  Wordsworth ;  and  left  one  in  that  un- 
speakable, complacent,  grateful  condition,  which,  as  I 
have  been  endeavouring  to  state,  is  the  highest  aim  of 
the  art. 

And  if  I  might  be  allowed  to  give  a  hint  to  amateurs 
concerning  pictures  and  their  merit,  I  would  say  look 
to  have  your  heart  touched  by  them.  The  best  paintings 
address  themselves  to  the  best  feelings  of  it ;  and  a  great 
many  very  clever  pictures  do  not  touch  it  at  all.  Skill 
and  handling  are  great  parts  of  a  painter's  trade,  but 
heart  is  the  first;  this  is  God's  direct  gift  to  him,  and 
cannot  be  got  in  any  academy,  or  under  any  master. 
Look  about,  therefore,  for  pictures,  be  they  large  or 
small,  finished  well  or  ill,  landscapes,  portraits,  figure- 
pieces,  pen-and-ink  sketches,  or  what  not,  that  contain 
sentiment  and  great  ideas.  He  who  possesses  these  w^ill 
be  sure  to  express  them  more  or  less  well.  Never  mind 
about  the  manner.  He  who  possesses  them  not  may 
draw  and  colour  to  perfection,  and  yet  be  no  artist.  As 
for  telling  you  what  sentiment  is,  and  what  it  is  not, 
wherein  lies  the  secret  of  the  sublime,  there,  madam,  we 
must  stop  altogether;  only,  after  reading  Burke  "On 
the  Sublime,"  you  will  find  yourself  exactly  as  wise  as 
you  were  before.  I  cannot  tell  why  a  landscape  by 
Claude  or  Constable  should  be  more  beautiful— it  is  cer- 
tainly not  more  dexterous— than  a  landscape  by  ]Mr. 

or  Mr. .     I  cannot  tell  why  Raphael  should  be 

superior  to  INIr.  Benjamin  Hay  don  (a  fact  which  one 
person  in  the  world  may  be  perhaps  inclined  to  doubt)  ; 
or  why  "Vedrai,  carino,"  in  "Don  Juan,"  should  be 
more  charming  to  me  than  "  Suoni  la  tromba,"  before 


894  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

mentioned.  The  latter  has  twice  as  much  drumming, 
trumpeting,  and  thundering  in  it.  All  these  points  are 
quite  undefinable  and  inexplicable  (I  never  read  a  met- 
aphysical account  of  them  that  did  not  seem  sheer  dul- 
ness  and  nonsense)  ;  but  we  can  have  no  doubt  about 
them.  And  thus  we  come  to  Charles  Lock  Eastlake, 
Esquire,  from  whom  we  started  about  a  page  since;  dur- 
ing which  we  have  laid  down,  first,  that  sentiment  is  the 
first  quality  of  a  picture;  second,  that  to  say  whether 
this  sentiment  exists  or  no  rests  with  the  individual  en- 
tirely, the  sentiment  not  being  capable  of  any  sort  of 
definition.  Charles  Lock  Eastlake,  Esquire,  possesses, 
to  my  thinking,  this  undefinable  arch-quality  of  senti- 
ment to  a  very  high  degree.  And,  besides  him,  let  us 
mention  William  Mulready,  Esquire,  Cope,  Boxall, 
Redgrave,  Herbert  (the  two  latter  don't  show  so  much 
of  it  this  year  as  formerly),  and  Richmond. 

Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  is  as  pure  as  a  Sabbath -hymn 
sung  by  the  voices  of  children.  He  has  taken  a  very 
simple  subject — hardly  any  subject  at  all;  but  such  sug- 
gestive points  are  the  best,  perhaps,  that  a  painter  can 
take;  for  with  the  illustration  of  a  given  subject  out  of 
a  history  or  romance,  when  one  has  seen  it,  one  has  com- 
monly seen  all,  whereas  such  a  piece  as  this,  which  Mr. 
Eastlake  calls  "  The  Salutation  of  the  Aged  Friar," 
brings  the  spectator  to  a  delightful  peaceful  state  of 
mind,  and  gives  him  matter  to  ponder  upon  long  after. 
The  story  of  this  piece  is  simply  this:— A  group  of  in- 
nocent happy-looking  Itahan  peasants  are  approaching 
a  couple  of  friars ;  a  l)oy  has  stepped  forward  with  a  lit- 
tle flower,  which  he  presents  to  the  elder  of  these,  and 
the  old  monk  is  giving  him  his  blessing. 

Now,  it  wonld  be  very  easy  to  find  fault  with  this  pic- 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  395 

ture,  and  complain  of  excessive  redness  in  the  shadows, 
excessive  whiteness  in  the  hnen,  of  repetition  in  the  faces, 
— the  smallest  child  is  the  very  counterpart  of  one  in  the 
"  Christ  and  the  Little  Children  "  by  the  same  artist  last 
j^ear— the  women  are  not  only  copies  of  women  before 
painted  by  ISIr.  Eastlake,  but  absolutely  copies  of  one 
another ;  the  drawing  lacks  vigour,  the  flesh-tints  variety 
(they  seem  to  be  j^roduced,  by  the  most  careful  stippling, 
with  a  brilliant  composition  of  lake  and  burnt  sienna, 
cooled  off  as  they  come  to  the  edges  with  a  little  blue). 
But  though,  in  the  writer's  judgment,  there  are  in  the 
picture  every  one  of  these  faults,  the  merits  of  the  per- 
formance incomparably  exceed  them,  and  these  are  of 
the  purely  sentimental  and  intellectual  kind.  What  a 
tender  grace  and  purity  in  the  female  heads!  If  Mr. 
Eastlake  repeats  his  model  often,  at  least  he  has  been 
very  lucky  in  finding  or  making  her:  indeed,  I  don't 
know  in  any  painter,  ancient  or  modern,  such  a  charming 
character  of  female  beauty.  The  countenances  of  the 
monks  are  full  of  unction ;  the  children,  with  their  mild- 
beaming  eyes,  are  fresh  with  recollections  of  heaven. 
There  is  no  affectation  of  middle-age  mannerism,  such 
as  silly  Germans  and  silly  Frenchmen  are  wont  to  call 
Catholic  art;  and  the  picture  is  truly  Catholic  in  conse- 
quence, having  about  it  what  the  hymn  calls  "  solemn 
mirth,"  and  giving  the  spectator  the  utmost  possible 
pleasure  in  viewing  it.  Now,  if  we  might  suggest  to 
]Mr.  Lane,  the  lithographer,  how  he  might  confer  a  vast 
benefit  upon  the  public,  we  would  entreat  him  to  make 
several  large  copies  of  pictures  of  this  class,  executing 
them  with  that  admirable  grace  and  fidelity  which  are 
the  characteristics  of  all  his  copies.  Let  these  be  coloured 
accurately,  as  they  might  be,  at  a  small  charge,  and  poor 


896  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

people  for  a  few  guineas  might  speedily  make  for  them- 
selves delightful  picture  galleries.  The  colour  adds 
amazingly  to  the  charm  of  these  pictures,  and  attracts 
the  eye  to  them.  And  they  are  such  placid  pious  com- 
panions for  a  man's  study,  that  the  continual  presence 
of  them  could  not  fail  to  purify  his  taste  and  his  heart. 

I  am  not  here  arguing,  let  it  be  remembered,  that  Mr. 
Eastlake  is  absolute  perfection ;  and  will  concede  to  those 
who  find  fault  with  him  that  his  works  are  deficient  in 
power,  however  remarkable  for  grace.  Be  it  so.  But, 
then,  let  us  admire  his  skill  in  choosing  such  subjects  as 
are  best  suited  to  his  stjde  of  thinking,  and  least  likely 
to  show  his  faults.  In  the  pieces  ordinarily  painted  by 
him,  grace  and  tender  feeling  are  the  chief  requisites; 
and  I  don't  recollect  a  work  of  his  in  which  he  has  aimed 
at  other  qualities.  One  more  picture  besides  the  old 
Friar  has  Mr.  Eastlake,  a  portrait  of  that  beautiful  Miss 
Bury,  whom  our  readers  must  recollect  in  the  old  house, 
in  a  black  mantle,  a  red  gown,  with  long  golden  hair  wav- 
ing over  her  shoulders,  and  a  lily  in  her  hand.  The  pic- 
ture was  engraved  afterwards  in  one  of  the  Annuals ;  and 
was  one  of  the  most  delightful  works  that  ever  came 
from  Mr.  Eastlake's  pencil.  I  can't  say  as  much  for  the 
present  portrait:  the  picture  wants  relief,  and  is  very 
odd  and  heavy  in  colour.  The  handsome  lady  looks  as  if 
she  wanted  her  stays.  O  beautiful  lily-bearer  of  six 
years  since !  you  should  not  have  appeared  like  a  mortal 
after  having  once  shone  upon  us  as  an  angel. 

And  now  we  are  come  to  the  man  whom  we  delight  to 
honour,  Mr.  Mulready,  who  has  three  pictures  in  the  ex- 
hibition tliat  are  all  charming  in  their  way.  The  first 
("Fair  Time,"  116)  was  painted,  it  is  said,  more  than 
a  score  of  years  since;  and  the  observer  may  look  into 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  397 

it  with  some  payment  for  his  curiosity,  for  it  contains 
specimens  of  the  artist's  old  and  new  manner.  The  pic- 
tm-e  in  its  first  state  is  somewhat  in  the  Wilkie  style  of 
that  day  (oh  for  the  Wilkie  style  of  that  day!),  having 
many  greys,  and  imitating  closely  the  Dutchmen.  Since 
then  the  painter  has  been  touching  up  the  figures  in  the 
foreground  with  his  new  and  favourite  lurid  orange- 
colour  ;  and  you  may  see  how  this  is  stippled  in  upon  the 
faces  and  hands,  and  borrow,  perhaps,  a  hint  or  two  re- 
garding the  INIulreadian  secret. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  this  strange  colour?— these 
glowing  burning  crimsons,  and  intense  blues,  and  greens 
more  green  than  the  first  budding  leavejs  of  spring  or  the 
mignonette-pots   in   a   Cockney's   window   at  Brixton. 
But  don't  fancy  that  we  are  joking  or  about  to  joke  at 
Mr.  Mulready.     These  gaudy  prismatic  colours  are  won- 
derfully captivating  to  the  eye:  and,  amidst  a  host  of 
pictures,  it  cannot  fail  to  settle  on  a  ^Mulready  in  pref- 
erence to  all.     But  for  consistency's  sake,  a  protest  must 
be  put  in  against  the  colour ;  it  is  pleasant,  but  wrong ;  we 
never  saw  it  in  nature— not  even  when  looking  through 
an  orange-coloured  glass.      This   point  being  settled, 
then,  and  our  minds  eased,  let  us  look  at  the  design  and 
conception  of  "  First  Love;  "  and  pray,  sir,  where  in  the 
whole  works  of  modern  artists  will  you  find  anything 
more  exquisitely  beautiful?      I  don't  know  what  that 
young  fellow,  so  solemn,  so  tender,  is  whispering  into 
the  ear  of  that  dear  girl  (she  is  only  fifteen  now,  but, 
sapristi,  how  beautiful  she  will  be  about  three  years 
hence ! ) ,  who  is  folding  a  pair  of  slim  arms  round  a  little 
baby,  and  making  believe  to  nurse  it,  as  they  three  are 
standing  one  glowing  summer  day  under  some  trees  by 
a  stile.     I  don't  know,  I  say,  what  they  are  saying ;  nor, 


398  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

if  I  could  hear,  would  I  tell— 'tis  a  secret,  madam.  Rec- 
ollect the  words  that  the  Captain  whispered  in  your  ear 
that  afternoon  in  the  shrubbery.  Your  heart  throbs, 
your  cheek  flushes ;  the  sweet  sound  of  those  words  tells 
clear  upon  your  ear,  and  you  say,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Titmarsh, 
how  can  you?"  Be  not  afraid,  madam — never,  never 
will  I  peach ;  but  sing,  in  the  words  of  a  poet  who  is  oc- 
casionally quoted  in  the  House  of  Commons — 

"  Est  et  fideli  tuta  silentio 
Merces.     Vetabo  qui  Cereris  sacrum 
Vulgarit  arcanae,  sub  isdem 
Sit  trabibus,  fragilemve  mecum 
Solvat  phaselum." 

Which  may  be  interpreted  (with  a  slight  alteration  of 
the  name  of  Ceres  for  that  of  a  much  more  agreeable 
goddess)  — 

Be  happy,  and  thy  counsel  keep, 

'Tis  thus  the  bard  adviseth  thee ; 
Remember  that  the  silent  Hp 

In  silence  shall  rewarded  be. 
And  fly  the  wretch  who  dares  to  strip 
Love  of  its  sacred  mystery. 

My  loyal  legs  I  would  not  stretch 

Beneath  the  same  mahogany; 
Nor  trust  myself  in  Chelsea  Reach, 

In  punt  or  skiff,  with  such  as  he. 
The  villain  who  would  kiss  and  peach, 

I  hold  him  for  mine  enemy  ! 

Rut,  to  return  to  our  muttons,  I  would  not  give  a  fig  for 
the  taste  of  the  individual  who  does  not  see  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  this  little  group.     Our  artist  has  more  passion 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  899 

than  the  before-lauded  ]Mr.  Eastlake,  but  quite  as  much 
delicacy  and  tenderness ;  and  they  seem  to  me  to  possess 
the  poetry  of  picture-making  more  than  any  other  of 
their  brethren. 

By  the  way,  what  is  this  insane  yell  that  has  been 
raised  throughout  the  public  press  about  JNIr.  Mulready's 
other  performance,  the  postage  cover,  and  why  are  the 
sages  so  bitter  against  it?  The  Ti7nes  says  it  is  disgrace- 
ful and  ludicrous;  the  elegant  writers  of  the  WeeJd?/ 
Dispatch  vow  it  is  ludicrous  and  disgraceful;  the  same 
sweet  song  is  echoed  by  papers,  Radical  and  Conserva- 
tive, in  London  and  the  provinces,  all  the  literary  gentle- 
men being  alive,  and  smarting  under  this  insult  to  the 
arts  of  the  country.  Honest  gentlemen  of  the  press,  be 
not  so  thin-skinned!  Take  my  word  for  it,  there  is  no 
cause  for  such  vehement  anger — no  good  opportunity 
here  for  you  to  show  off  that  exquisite  knowledge  of  the 
fine  arts  for  which  you  are  so  celebrated  throughout  tlie 
world.  Gentlemen,  the  drawing  of  which  you  complain 
is  not  bad.  The  commonest  engravers,  who  would  be 
ashamed  to  produce  such  a  design,  will  tell  you,  if  they 
know  anything  of  their  business,  that  they  could  not 
make  a  better  in  a  hurry.  Every  man  who  knows  Avliat 
drawing  is  will  acknowledge  that  some  of  these  little 
groups  are  charmingly  drawn;  and  I  will  trouble  your 
commonest  engravers  to  design  the  Chinese  group,  the 
American,  or  the  West  Indian,  in  a  manner  more  grace- 
ful and  more  characteristic  than  that  of  the  much-bespat- 
tered post  envelope. 

I  am  not  holding  up  the  whole  affair  as  a  masterpiece 
—pas  si  hete.  The  "  triumphant  hallegory  of  Britan- 
nia ruling  the  waves,"  as  Mathews  used  to  call  it,  is  a 
httle  stale,  certainly,  nowadays;  but  what  would  you 


400  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

have?  How  is  the  subHme  to  be  eHcited  from  such  a  sub- 
ject? Let  some  of  the  common  engravers,  in  their  lei- 
sure moments,  since  the  thing  is  so  easy,  make  a  better  de- 
sign, or  the  Hterary  men  who  are  so  indignant  invent  one. 
The  Government,  no  doubt,  is  not  bound  heart  and  soul 
to  Mr.  Mulready,  and  is  willing  to  hear  reason.  Fiat 
justitia,  mat  caelum:  though  all  the  world  shall  turn  on 
thee,  O  Government,  in  this  instance  Titmarsh  shall 
stand  by  thee — ay,  and  without  any  hope  of  reward.  To 
be  sure,  if  my  Lord  Normanby  absolutely  insists— but 
that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I  repeat,  the  Post  Office 
envelope  is  not  bad,  quoad  design.  That  very  lion,  which 
some  of  the  men  of  the  press  (the  Daniels!)  have  been 
crying  out  about,  is  finely,  carefully,  and  characteristi- 
cally sketched;  those  elephants  I  am  sure  were  closely 
studied,  before  the  artist  in  a  few  lines  laid  them  down 
on  his  wood-block;  and  as  for  the  persons  who  are  to 
imitate  the  engraving  so  exactly,  let  them  try.  It  has 
been  done  by  the  best  wood-engraver  in  Europe.  Ask 
any  man  in  the  profession  if  Mr.  Thompson  is  not  at  the 
head  of  it?  He  has  bestowed  on  it  a  vast  deal  of  time, 
and  skill,  and  labour;  and  all  who  know  the  difficulties 
of  wood-engraving — of  outline  wood-engraving — and 
of  rendering  faithfully  a  design  so  very  minute  as  this, 
will  smile  at  the  sages  who  declare  that  all  the  world 
could  forge  it.  There  was  one  provincial  paper  which 
declared,  in  a  style  peculiarly  elegant,  that  a  man  "  with 
a  block  of  wood  and  a  bread-and-cheese  knife  could 
easily  imitate  the  envelope ; "  which  remark,  for  its  pro- 
found truth  and  sagacity,  the  London  journals  copied. 
For  shame,  gentlemen!  Do  you  think  you  show  your 
knowledge  by  adopting  such  opinions  as  these,  or  prove 
your  taste  by  clothing  yourselves  in  the  second-hand  gar- 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  401 

ments  of  the  rustic  who  talks  about  bread  and  cheese? 
Try,  Tyrotomos,  upon  whatever  block  thou  choosest  to 
practise;  or,  be  wise,  and  with  appropriate  bread-and- 
cheese  knife  cut  onlv  bread  and  cheese.  Of  bread,  white 
and  brown,  of  cheese,  old,  new,  mouldy,  toasted,  the 
writer  of  the  Double-Gloster  Journal,  the  Stilton  Ex- 
aminer, the  Cheddar  Champion,  and  North  Wiltshire 
Intelligencer,  may  possibly  be  a  competent  critic,  and 
(with  mouth  replete  with  the  delicious  condiment)  may 
no  doubt  eloquently  speak.  But  let  us  be  cautious  be- 
fore we  agree  to  and  admiringly  adopt  his  opinions  upon 
matters  of  art.  JNIr.  Thompson  is  the  first  wood- 
engraver  in  our  country — JNIr.  JNIulready  one  of  the 
best  painters  in  our  or  any  school:  it  is  hard  that 
such  men  are  to  be  assailed  in  such  language,  and  by  such 
a  critic ! 

This  artist's  picture  of  an  interior  is  remarkable  for 
the  same  exaggerated  colour,  and  for  the  same  excel- 
lences. The  landscape  seen  from  the  window  is  beauti- 
fully solemn,  and  very  finely  painted,  in  the  clear  bright 
manner  of  Van  Dyck  and  Cranach,  and  the  early  Ger- 
man school. 

Mr.  Richmond's  picture  of  "  Our  Lord  after  the  Res- 
urrection "  deserves  a  much  better  place  than  it  has  in  the 
little,  dingy,  newly-discovered  octagon  closet ;  and  leaves 
us  to  regret  that  he  should  occupy  himself  so  much  with 
water-colour  portraits,  and  so  little  with  compositions  in 
oil.  This  picture  is  beautifully  conceived,  and  very 
finely  and  carefully  drawn  and  painted.  One  of  the 
apostles  is  copied  from  Raphael,  and  the  more  is  the  pity : 
a  man  who  could  execute  two  such  grand  figures  as  the 
other  two  in  the  picture  need  surely  borrow  from  no  one. 
A  water-colour  group  by  the  same  artist   (547,  "The 


402  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Children  of  Colonel  Lindsay")  contains  two  charming 
figures  of  a  young  lady  and  a  little  boy,  painted  with 
great  care  and  precision  of  design  and  colour,  with  great 
purity  of  sentiment,  and  without  the  least  affectation. 
Let  our  aristocracy  send  their  wives  and  children  (the 
handsomest  wives  and  children  in  the  world)  to  be 
painted  by  this  gentleman,  and  those  who  are  like  him. 
Miss  Lindsay,  with  her  plain  red  dress  and  modest  looks, 
is  surelj^  a  thousand  times  more  captivating  than  those 
dangerous  smiling  Delilahs  in  her  neighbourhood,  whom 
Mr.  Chalon  has  painted.  We  must  not  be  understood 
to  undervalue  this  latter  gentleman,  however ;  his  draw- 
ings are  miracles  of  dexterity;  every  year  they  seem  to 
be  more  skilful  and  more  brilliant.  Such  satins  and  lace, 
such  diamond  rings  and  charming  little  lapdogs,  were 
never  painted  before, — not  by  Watteau,  the  first  master 
of  the  genre, — nor  by  Lancret,  who  was  scarcely  his  in- 
ferior. A  miniature  on  ivory  by  Mr.  Chalon,  among  the 
thousand  prim,  pretty  little  pictures  of  the  same  class 
which  all  the  ladies  crowd  about,  is  remarkable  for  its 
brilliancy  of  colour  and  charming  freedom  of  handling; 
as  is  an  oil  sketch  of  masquerading  figures,  by  the  same 
painter,  for  the  curious  coarseness  of  the  painting. 

Before  we  leave  the  high-class  pictures,  we  must  men- 
tion Mr.  Boxall's  beautiful  "  Hope,"  which  is  exquisitely 
refined  and  delicate  in  sentiment,  colour,  and  execution. 
Placed  close  beneath  one  of  Turner's  magnificent  torna- 
does of  colour,  it  loses  none  of  its  own  beauty.  As  Uh- 
land  writes  of  a  certain  king  and  queen  who  are  seated  in 
state  side  by  side, — 

"  Dcr  Turner  furchtbar  prachtig  wie  blut'ger  Nordliclitschein, 
Der  Boxall  siiss  und  niiklc,  als  blickte  Vollniond  drein." 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  403 

Which  signifies  in  English,  that 

"As  beams  the  moon  so  gentle  near  the  sun,  that  blood-red  burner, 
So  sliineth  William  Boxall  by  Joseph  Mallord  Turner." 

In  another  part  of  the  room,  and  contrasting  their 
quiet  grace  in  the  same  way  with  JNIr.  Turner's  glaring 
colours,  are  a  couple  of  delightful  pictures  by  Mr.  Cope, 
with  mottoes  that  will  explain  their  subjects.  "Help 
thy  father  in  his  age,  and  despise  him  not  when  thou  art 
in  thy  full  strength; "  and  "  Reject  not  the  affliction  of 
the  afflicted,  neither  turn  away  th}^  face  from  a  poor 
man."  The  latter  of  these  pictures  is  especially  beauti- 
ful, and  the  figure  of  the  female  charity  as  graceful  and 
delicate  as  may  be.  I  wish  I  could  say  a  great  deal  in 
praise  of  JNIr.  Cope's  large  altar-piece :  it  is  a  very  meri- 
torious performance;  but  here  praise  stops,  and  such 
praise  is  worth  exactly  nothing.  A  large  picture  must 
either  be  splendid,  or  else  naught.  This  "  Crucifixion  " 
has  a  great  deal  of  vigour,  feeling,  grace;  but — the  but 
is  fatal ;  all  minor  praises  are  drowned  in  it.  Recollect, 
however,  ]Mr.  Cope,  that  Titmarsh,  who  writes  this,  is 
only  giving  his  private  opinion ;  that  he  is  mortal ;  that 
it  is  barely  possible  that  he  should  be  in  the  wrong ;  and 
with  this  confession,  which  I  am  compelled  ( for  fear  you 
might  overlook  the  circumstance)  to  make,  you  will,  I 
dare  say,  console  yourself,  and  do  well.  But  men  must 
gird  themselves,  and  go  through  long  trainings,  before 
they  can  execute  such  gigantic  works  as  altar-pieces. 
Handel,  doubtless,  wrote  many  little  pleasing  melodies 
before  he  pealed  out  the  "Hallelujah"  chorus;  and  so 
painters  will  do  well  to  try  their  powers,  and,  if  possible, 
measure  and  understand  them,  before  thev  use  them. 
There  is  JNIr.  Hart,  for  instance,  who  took  in  an  evil  hour 


404  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

to  the  making  of  great  pictures;  in  the  present  exhibi- 
tion is  a  decently  small  one;  but  the  artist  has  over- 
stretched himself  in  the  former  attempts;  as  one  hears 
of  gentlemen  on  the  rack,  the  limbs  are  stretched  one  or 
two  inches  by  the  process,  and  the  patient  comes  away 
by  so  much  the  taller:  but  he  can't  walk  near  so  well  as 
before,  and  all  his  strength  is  stretched  out  of  him. 

Let  this  be  a  solemn  hint  to  a  clever  young  painter, 
Mr.  Elmore,  who  has  painted  a  clever  picture  of  "  The 
Murder  of  Saint  Thomas  a  Becket,"  for  Mr.  Daniel 
O'Connell.  Come  oiF  your  rack,  Mr.  Elmore,  or  you 
will  hurt  yourself.  Much  better  is  it  to  paint  small  sub- 
jects, for  some  time  at  least.  "  Non  cuivis  contingit 
adire  Corinthum,"  as  the  proverb  says;  but  there  is  a 
number  of  pleasant  villages  in  this  world  beside,  where 
we  may  snugly  take  up  our  quarters.  By  the  way,  what 
is  the  meaning  of  Tom  a  Becket's  black  cassock  under 
his  canonicals?  Would  John  Tuam  celebrate  mass  in 
such  a  dress?  A  painter  should  be  as  careful  about  his 
costumes  as  an  historian  about  his  dates,  or  he  plays  the 
deuce  with  his  composition. 

Now,  in  this  matter  of  costume,  nobody  can  be  more 
sci-upulous  than  Mr.  Charles  Landseer,  whose  picture 
of  Nell  Gwynne  is  painted  with  admirable  effect,  and 
honest  scrupulousness.  It  is  very  good  in  colour,  very 
gay  in  spirits  (perhaps  too  refined, — for  Nelly  never  was 
such  a  hypocrite  as  to  look  as  modest  as  that)  ;  but  the 
gentlemen  and  ladies  do  not  look  as  if  they  were  accus- 
tomed to  their  dresses,  for  all  their  correctness,  but  had 
put  them  on  for  the  first  time.  Indeed,  this  is  a  very 
small  fault,  and  the  merits  of  the  picture  are  very  great : 
every  one  of  the  accessories  is  curiously  well  painted, — 
some  of  the  figures  very  spirited   (the  drawer  is  excel- 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  405 

lent)  ;  and  the  picture  one  of  the  most  agreeable  in  the 
whole  gallery.  jNIr.  Redgrave  has  another  costume  pic- 
ture, of  a  rather  old  subject,  from  "  The  Rambler."  A 
poor  girl  comes  to  be  companion  to  jNIr.  and  ]Mrs. 
Courtly,  who  are  at  piquet ;  their  servants  are  bringing  in 
tea,  and  the  master  and  mistress  are  looking  at  the  new- 
comer with  a  great  deal  of  easy  scorn.  The  poor  girl 
is  charming;  ]SIrs.  Courtly  not  quite  genteel,  but  with  a 
wonderful  quilted  petticoat ;  Courtly  looks  as  if  he  were 
not  accustomed  to  his  clothes;  the  servants  are  very 
good ;  and  as  for  the  properties,  as  they  would  be  called 
on  the  stage,  these  are  almost  too  good,  painted  with  a 
daguerreotypical  minuteness  that  gives  this  and  Mr. 
Redgrave's  other  picture  of  "  Paracelsus  "  a  finikin  air, 
if  we  may  use  such  a  disrespectful  term.  Both  per- 
formances, however,  contain  very  high  merit  of  expres- 
sion and  sentiment;  and  are  of  such  a  character  as  we 
seldom  saw  in  our  schools  twenty  years  ago. 

There  is  a  large  picture  by  a  Scotch  artist,  JNIr.  Dun- 
can, representing  "  The  Entry  of  Charles  Edward  into 
Edinburgh,"  which  runs  a  little  into  caricature,  but  con- 
tains a  vast  deal  of  character  and  merit ;  and  which,  above 
all,  in  the  article  of  costume,  shows  much  study  and  taste. 
Mr.  Duncan  seems  to  have  formed  his  style  upon  JNIr. 
Allan  and  Mr.  Wilkie— I  beg  his  pardon— Sir  David. 
The  former  has  a  pleasing  brown  picture  likewise  on  the 
subject  of  the  Pretender.  The  latter's  ]\Iaid  of  Sara- 
gossa  and  Spaniard  at  the  gun,  anyone  may  see  habited 
as  Irish  peasants  superintending  "A  Whisky  Still,"  in 
the  middle  room.  No.  252. 

This  picture,  I  say,  anyone  may  see  and  admire  who 
pleases :  to  me  it  seems  all  rags,  and  duds,  and  a  strange, 
straggling,  misty  composition.     There  are  fine  things, 


406  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

of  course;  for  how  can  Sir  David  help  painting  fine 
things?  In  the  "Benvenuto"  there  is  superb  colour, 
with  a  rich  management  of  lakes  especially,  which  has 
been  borrowed  from  no  master  that  we  know  of.  The 
Queen  is  as  bad  a  likeness  and  picture  as  we  have  seen 
for  many  a  day.  "  Mrs.  Ferguson,  of  Raith,"  a  mag- 
nificent picture  indeed,  as  grand  in  effect  as  a  Rubens  or 
Titian,  and  having  a  style  of  its  own.  The  little  sketch 
from  Allan  Ramsay  is  delightful ;  and  the  nobleman  and 
hounds  (with  the  exception  of  his  own  clumsy  vermilion 
robe ) ,  as  fine  as  the  fellow-sized  portrait  mentioned  be- 
fore. Allan  Ramsay  has  given  a  pretty  subject,  and 
brought  us  a  pretty  picture  from  another  painter,  Mr. 
A.  Johnston,  who  has  illustrated  those  pleasant  quaint 
lines, — 

"  Last  morning  I  was  gay,  and  early  out ; 
Upon  a  dike  I  leaned,  glow'ring  about. 
I  saw  my  Meg  come  linkan  o'er  the  lea ; 
I  saw  my  Meg,  but  Meggy  saw  na  me." 

And  here  let  us  mention  with  praise  two  small  pictures 
in  a  style  somewhat  similar — "  The  Recruit,"  and  "  Her- 
mann and  Dorothea,"  by  Mr.  Poole.  The  former  of 
these  little  pieces  is  very  touching  and  beautiful.  There 
is  among  the  present  exhibitioners  no  lack  of  this  kind  of 
talent;  and  we  could  point  out  many  pictures  that  are 
equally  remarkable  for  grace  and  agreeable  feeling. 
Mr.  Stone's  "  Annot  Lyle  "  should  not  be  passed  over, — 
a  pretty  picture,  very  well  painted,  the  female  head  of 
great  beauty  and  expression. 

Now,  if  we  want  to  praise  performances  showing  a 
great  deal  of  power  and  vigour,  rather  than  grace  and 
delicacy,    there    are    Mr.    Etty's    "  Andromeda "    and 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  407 

"  Venus."  In  the  former,  the  dim  figure  of  advancing 
Perseus  galloping  on  his  airy  charger  is  very  fine  and 
ghostly ;  in  the  latter,  the  body  of  the  Venus,  and  indeed 
the  whole  picture,  is  a  perfect  miracle  of  colour.  Titian 
may  have  painted  Italian  flesh  equally  well;  but  he 
never,  I  think,  could  surpass  the  skill  of  ^Ir.  Etty.  The 
trunk  of  this  voluptuous  Venus  is  the  most  astonishing 
representation  of  beautiful  English  flesh  and  blood, 
painted  in  the  grandest  and  broadest  style.  It  is  said 
that  the  Academy  at  Edinburgh  has  a  room  full  of 
Etty's  pictures;  they  could  not  do  better  in  England 
than  follow  the  example ;  but  perhaps  the  paintings  had 
better  be  kept  for  the  Academy  only—iov  the  profanum 
Vulgus  are  scarcely  fitted  to  comprehend  their  peculiar 
beauties.  A  prettily  drawn,  graceful,  nude  figure,  is 
"  Bathsheba,"  by  Mr.  Fisher,  of  the  street  and  city  of 
Cork. 

The  other  great  man  of  Cork  is  Daniel  Maclise  by 
name;  and  if  in  the  riot  of  fancy  he  hath  by  playful 
Titmarsh  been  raised  to  the  honour  of  knighthood,  it  is 
certain  that  here  Titmarsh  is  a  true  prophet,  and  that  the 
sovereign  will  so  elevate  him,  one  day  or  other,  to  sit  with 
other  cavaliers  at  the  Academic  round  table.  As  for  his 
pictures,— why,  as  for  his  pictures,  madam,  these  are 
to  be  carefully  reviewed  in  the  next  number  of  this 
Magazine;  for  the  present  notice  has  noticed  scarcely 
anybody,  and  yet  stretched  to  an  inordinate  length. 
"  Macbeth  "  is  not  to  be  hurried  off  under  six  pages ; 
and,  for  this  June  number,  Mr.  Eraser  vows  that  he 
has  no  such  room  to  spare. 

We  have  said  how  Mr.  Turner's  pictures  blaze  about 
the  rooms;  it  is  not  a  little  curious  to  hear  how  artists 
and  the  public  differ  in  their  judgments  concerning 


408  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

them;  the  enthusiastic  wonder  of  the  first-named,  the 
blank  surprise  and  increduhty  of  the  latter.  "  The  new 
moon;  or,  I've  lost  my  boat:  you  shan't  have  your  hoop," 
is  the  ingenious  title  of  one,— a  very  beautiful  picture, 
too,  of  a  long  shining  sea-sand,  lighted  from  the  upper 
part  of  the  canvas  by  the  above-named  luminary  of 
night,  and  from  the  left-hand  corner  by  a  wonderful 
wary  boy  in  a  red  jacket— the  best  painted  figure  that 
we  ever  knew  painted  by  Joseph  Mallord  Turner,  Es- 
quire. 

He  and  Mr.  Ward  vie  with  each  other  in  mottoes  for 

their  pictures.     Ward's  epigraph  to  the  S 's  nest 

is  wondrous  poetic. 

277.  The  S 's  Nest.     S.  Ward,  R.A. 

"  Say  they  that  happiness  lives  with  the  great, 
On  gorgeous  trappings  mixt  with  pomp  and  state.'' 
More  frequent  found  upon  the  simple  plain, 
In  poorest  garb,  with  Julia,  Jess,  or  Jane ; 
In  sport  or  slumber,  as  it  likes  her  best, 
Where'er  she  lays  she  finds  it  a  S 's  nest." 

Ay,  and  a  S 's  eggs,  too,  as  one  would  fancy,  were 

great  geniuses  not  above  grammar.    Mark  the  line,  too, 

"  On  gorgeous  trappings  mixt  with  pomp  and  state," 

and  construe  the  whole  of  this  sensible  passage. 

Not  less  sublime  is  Mr.  Ward's  fellow-Academi- 
cian:— 

230.  "  Slavers  throwing  overboard  the  Dead  and  Dy- 
ing: Typhon  coming  on."    J.  M.  W.  Turner,  R.A. 

"  Aloft  all  hands,  strike  the  topmasts  and  belay  ! 
Yon  angry  setting  sun  and  fierce-edged  clouds 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  409 

Declare  the  Typhon's  coming. 

Before  it  sweeps  your  decks,  throw  overboard 

The  dead  and  dying — ne'er  heed  their  chains. 

Hope,  Hope,  fallacious  Hope ! 

Where  is  thy  market  now  ?  " 

MS.  Fallacies  of  Hope. 

Fallacies  of  Hope,  indeed:  to  a  pretty  mart  has  she 
brought  her  Y»igs\  How  should  Hope  be  hooked  on  to 
the  slaver?  By  the  anchor,  to  be  sure,  which  accounts 
for  it.  As  for  the  picture,  the  R.A.'s  rays  are  indeed 
terrific;  and  the  slaver  throwing  its  cargo  overboard  is 
the  most  tremendous  piece  of  colour  that  ever  was  seen ; 
it  sets  the  corner  of  the  room  in  which  it  hangs  into  a 
flame.  Is  the  picture  sublime  or  ridiculous?  Indeed  I 
don't  know  which.  Rocks  of  gamboge  are  marked  down 
upon  the  canvas;  flakes  of  white  laid  on  with  a  trowel; 
bladders  of  vermilion  madly  spirted  here  and  there. 
Yonder  is  the  slaver  rocking  in  the  midst  of  a  flashing 
foam  of  white-lead.  The  sun  glares  down  upon  a  hor- 
rible sea  of  emerald  and  purple,  into  which  chocolate- 
coloured  slaves  are  plunged,  and  chains  that  will  not 
sink;  and  round  these  are  floundering  such  a  race  of 
fishes  as  never  was  seen  since  the  sceculuin  Pyrrlue;  gasp- 
ing dolphins,  redder  than  the  reddest  herrings;  horrid 
spreading  polypi,  like  huge,  slimy,  poached  eggs,  in 
which  hapless  niggers  plunge  and  disappear.  Ye  gods, 
what  a  "  middle  passage  "  !  How  Mr.  Fowell  Buxton 
must  shudder!  What  would  they  say  to  this  in  Exeter 
Hall?  If  Wilberforce's  statue  downstairs  were  to  be 
confronted  with  this  picture,  the  stony  old  gentleman 
would  spring  off  his  chair,  and  fly  away  in  terror ! 

And  here,  as  we  are  speaking  of  the  slave-trade,  let 
us  say  a  word  in  welcome  to  a  French  artist,  Monsieur 


410  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Biard,  and  his  admirable  picture.  Let  the  friends  of  the 
negro  forthwith  buy  this  canvas,  and  cause  a  plate  to  be 
taken  from  it.  It  is  the  best,  most  striking,  most  pa- 
thetic lecture  against  the  trade  that  ever  was  delivered. 
The  picture  is  as  fine  as  Hogarth;  and  the  artist,  who, 
as  we  have  heard,  right  or  wrong,  has  only  of  late  years 
adopted  the  profession  of  painting,  and  was  formerly 
in  the  French  navy,  has  evidently  drawn  a  great  deal  of 
his  materials  from  life  and  personal  observation.  The 
scene  is  laid  upon  the  African  coast.  King  Tom  or 
King  Boy  has  come  with  troops  of  slaves  down  the 
Quorra,  and  sits  in  the  midst  of  his  chiefs  and  mistresses 
(one  a  fair  creature,  not  much  darker  than  a  copper  tea- 
kettle) ,  bargaining  with  a  French  dealer.  What  a  hor- 
rible callous  brutality  there  is  in  the  scoundrel's  face, 
as  he  lolls  over  his  greasy  ledger,  and  makes  his  calcu- 
lations. A  number  of  his  crew  are  about  him ;  their  boats 
close  at  hand,  in  which  they  are  stowing  their  cargo.  See 
the  poor  wretches,  men  and  women,  collared  together, 
drooping  down.  There  is  one  poor  thing,  just  parted 
from  her  child.  On  the  ground  in  front  lies  a  stalwart 
negro;  one  connoisseur  is  handling  his  chest,  to  try  his 
wind;  another  has  opened  his  mouth,  and  examines  his 
teeth,  to  know  his  age  and  soundness.  Yonder  is  a  poor 
woman  kneeling  before  one  of  the  Frenchmen;  her 
shoulder  is  fizzing  under  the  hot  iron  with  which  he 
brands  her ;  she  is  looking  up,  shuddering  and  wild,  yet 
quite  mild  and  patient:  it  breaks  your  heart  to  look  at 
her.  I  never  saw  anything  so  exquisitely  pathetic  as  that 
face.  God  bless  you,  Monsiein-  Biard,  for  painting  it! 
It  stirs  the  heart  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  tracts, 
reports,  or  sermons :  it  must  convert  every  man  who  has 
seen   it.     You   British    Government,    who   have   given 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  411 

twenty  millions  towards  the  good  end  of  freeing  this 
hapless  people,  give  yet  a  couple  of  thousand  more  to 
the  French  painter,  and  don't  let  his  work  go  out  of  the 
country,  now  that  it  is  here.  Let  it  hang  along  with  the 
Hogarths  in  the  National  Gallery;  it  is  as  good  as  the 
best  of  them.  Or,  there  is  Mr.  Thomas  Babington  ^la- 
caulay,  who  has  a  family  interest  in  the  matter,  and  does 
not  know  how  to  spend  all  the  money  he  brought  home 
from  India;  let  the  right  honourable  gentleman  look  to 
it.  Down  with  your  dust,  right  honourable  sir;  give 
Monsieur  Biard  a  couple  of  thousand  for  his  picture  of 
the  negroes,  and  it  will  be  the  best  black  act  you  ever 
did  in  your  life ;  and  don't  go  for  to  be  angry  at  the  sug- 
gestion, or  fancy  we  are  taking  liberties.  What  is  said 
is  said  from  one  public  man  to  another,  in  a  Pickwickian 
sense,  de  puissance  en  puissance, — from  Titmarsh,  in  his 
critical  cathedra,  to  your  father's  eminent  son,  rich  with 
the  spoils  of  Ind,  and  wielding  the  bolts  of  war. 

What  a  marvellous  power  is  this  of  the  painter's !  how 
each  great  man  can  excite  us  at  his  will !  what  a  weapon 
he  has,  if  he  knows  how  to  wield  it!  Look  for  a  while 
at  Mr.  Etty's  pictures,  and  away  you  rush,  your  "  eyes 
on  fire,"  drunken  with  the  luscious  colours  that  are 
poured  out  for  you  on  the  liberal  canvas,  and  warm  with 
the  sight  of  the  beautiful  sirens  that  appear  on  it.  You 
fly  from  this  (and  full  time  too),  and  plunge  into  a 
green  shady  landscape  of  Lee  or  Creswick,  and  follow  a 
quiet  stream  babbling  beneath  whispering  trees,  and 
chequered  with  cool  shade  and  golden  sunshine;  or  you 
set  the  world— nay,  the  Thames  and  the  ocean— on  fire 
with  that  incendiary  Turner;  or  you  laugh  with  honest 
kind-hearted  Webster,  and  his  troops  of  merry  children ; 
or  you  fall  a-weeping  with  ^lonsieur  Biard  for  his  poor 


412  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

blacks;  or  you  go  and  consult  the  priests  of  the  place, 
Eastlake,  Mulready,  Boxall,  Cope,  and  the  like,  and 
straightway  your  mind  is  carried  off  in  an  ecstasy, — 
happy  thrilling  hymns  sound  in  your  ears  melodious, — 
sweet  thankfulness  fills  your  bosom.  How  much  in- 
struction and  happiness  have  we  gained  from  these  men, 
and  how  grateful  should  we  be  to  them! 

[It  is  well  that  Mr.  Titmarsh  stopped  here,  and  I 
shall  take  special  care  to  examine  any  further  remarks 
which  he  may  think  fit  to  send.  Four-fifths  of  this 
would  have  been  cancelled,  had  the  printed  sheets  fallen 
sooner  into  our  hands.  The  story  about  the  "  Clarendon  " 
is  an  absurd  fiction ;  no  dinner  ever  took  place  there.  I 
never  fell  asleep  in  a  plate  of  raspberry -ice ;  and  though 
I  certainly  did  recommend  this  person  to  do  justice  by 
the  painters,  making  him  a  speech  to  that  effect,  my 
opinions  were  infinitely  better  expressed,  and  I  would 
repeat  them  were  it  not  so  late  in  the  month.  — O.  Y.] 


A   PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY:    CONCLUDED 

AND  FOLLOWED  BY  A  REMARKABLE  STATEMENT  OF  FACTS 

BY  MRS.  BARBARA 

A  ND  now,  in  pursuance  of  the  promise  recorded  in 
XjL  the  last  number  of  this  ^lagazine,  and  for  the  per- 
formance of  which  the  pubUc  has  ever  since  been  in  breath- 
less expectation,  it  hath  become  Titmarsh's  duty  to  note 
down  his  opinions  of  the  remaining  pictures  in  the  Acad- 
emy exhibition;  and  to  criticise  such  other  pieces  as  the 
other  galleries  may  show. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  with  regard  to  Mr.  INIaclise,  it 
becomes  us  to  say  our  say:  and  as  the  Observer  news- 
paper, which,  though  under  the  express  patronage  of 
the  royal  family,  devotes  by  far  the  noblest  part  of  its 
eloquence  to  the  consideration  of  dramatic  subjects,  and 
to  the  discussion  of  the  gains,  losses,  and  theatrical  con- 
duct of  managers,— as,  I  say,  the  Observer  newspaper, 
whenever  Madame  Vestris  or  ^Ir.  Yates  adopts  anj^ 
plan  that  concurs  with  the  notions  of  the  paper  in  ques- 
tion, does  not  fail  to  say  that  Madame  Vestris  or  ^Ir. 
Yates  has  been  induced  so  to  reform  in  consequence  of 
the  Observers  particular  suggestion;  in  like  manner, 
Titmarsh  is  fully  convinced,  that  all  the  painters  in  this 
town  have  their  eyes  incessantly  fixed  upon  his  criticisms, 
and  that  all  the  wise  ones  regulate  their  opinions  by  his. 
In  the  language  of  the  Observer,  then,  Mr.  Maclise 
has  done  Avisely  to  adopt  our  suggestions  with  regard  to 

413 


414  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

the  moral  treatment  of  his  pictures,  and  has  made  a 
great  advance  in  his  art.  Of  his  four  pictures,  let  us 
dismiss  the  scene  from  "  Gil  Bias  "  at  once.  Coming 
from  a  second-rate  man,  it  would  be  well  enough;  it  is 
well  drawn,  grouped,  lighted,  shadowed,  and  the  people 
all  grin  very  comically,  as  people  do  in  pictures  called 
comic;  but  the  soul  of  fun  is  wanting,  as  I  take  it, — 
the  merry,  brisk,  good-humoured  spirit  which  in  Le 
Sage's  text  so  charms  the  reader. 

"  Olivia  and  INIalvolio "  is,  on  the  contrary,  one  of 
the  best  and  most  spiritual  performances  of  the  artist. 
Nothing  can  be  more  elegant  than  the  tender  languid 
melancholy  of  Olivia,  nor  more  poetical  than  the  general 
treatment  of  the  picture.  The  long  clipped  alleys  and 
quaint  gardens,  the  peacocks  trailing  through  the  walks, 
and  vases  basking  in  the  sun,  are  finely  painted  and  con- 
ceived. Examine  the  picture  at  a  little  distance,  and  the 
ensemble  of  the  composition  and  colour  is  extraordi- 
narily pleasing.  The  details,  too,  are,  as  usual,  won- 
derful for  their  accuracy.  Here  are  flower-beds,  and  a 
tree  above  Olivia's  head,  of  which  every  leaf  is  painted, 
and  ])ainted  with  such  skill,  as  not  in  the  least  to  injure 
the  general  effect  of  the  picture.  Mr.  Maclise  has  a 
daguerreotypic  eye,  and  a  feeling  of  form  stronger,  I 
do  believe,  than  has  ever  been  possessed  by  any  painter 
before  him. 

Look  at  the  joortrait  of  Mr.  Dickens, — well  arranged 
as  a  picture,  good  in  cok)ur,  and  light,  and  shadow,  and 
as  a  likeness  perfectly  amazing;  a  looking-glass  could 
not  render  a  better  facsimile.  Here  we  have  the  real 
identical  man  Dickens:  tlie  artist  must  have  understood 
the  inward  Boz  as  well  as  the  outward  before  he  madi 
this  admirable  representation  of  him.     What  cheerful 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  415 

intelligence  there  is  about  the  man's  eyes  and  large  fore- 
head! The  mouth  is  too  large  and  full,  too  eager  and 
active,  perhaps;  the  smile  is  very  sweet  and  generous. 
If  Monsieur  de  Balzac,  that  voluminous  physiognomist, 
could  examine  this  head,  he  would,  no  doubt,  interpret 
every  tone  and  wrinkle  in  it:  the  nose  firm,  and  well 
placed ;  the  nostrils  wide  and  full,  as  are  the  nostrils  of 
all  men  of  genius  (this  is  INIonsieur  Balzac's  maxim). 
The  past  and  the  future,  says  Jean  Paul,  are  M^ritten  in 
every  countenance.  I  think  we  may  promise  ourselves 
a  brilliant  future  from  this  one.  There  seems  no  flag- 
ging as  yet  in  it,  no  sense  of  fatigue,  or  consciousness 
of  decaying  power.  Long  mayest  thou,  O  Boz!  reign 
over  thy  comic  kingdom;  long  may  we  pay  tribute, 
whether  of  threepence  weekly  or  of  a  shilling  monthly, 
it  matters  not.  flighty  prince!  at  thy  imperial  feet, 
Titmarsh,  humblest  of  thy  servants,  offers  his  vows  of 
loyalty,  and  his  humble  tribute  of  praise. 

And  now  (as  soon  as  we  are  off  our  knees,  and  have 
done  paying  court  to  sovereign  Boz)  it  behoves  us  to 
say  a  word  or  two  concerning  the  picture  of  "  Macbeth," 
which  occupies  such  a  conspicuous  place  in  the  Academy 
gallery.  Well,  then,  this  picture  of  "  Macbeth "  has 
been,  to  our  notion,  a  great  deal  too  much  praised  and 
abused;  only  Titmarsh  understands  the  golden  mean, 
as  is  acknowledged  by  all  who  read  his  criticisms.  Here 
is  a  very  fine  masterly  picture,  no  doubt,  full  of  beauties, 
and  showing  extraordinary  power;  but  not  a  master- 
piece, as  I  humbly  take  it, — not  a  picture  to  move  the 
beholder  as  much  as  many  performances  that  do  not 
display  half  the  power  that  is  here  exhibited.  I  don't 
pretend  to  lay  down  any  absolute  laws  on  the  sublime 
(the  reader  will  remember  how  the  ancient  satirist  hath 


416  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

accused  John  Dennis  of  madness,  for  his  vehement 
preaching  of  such  rules).  No,  no;  Michael  Angelo  T. 
is  not  quite  so  impertinent  as  that ;  but  the  public  and  the 
artist  will  not  mind  being  told,  without  any  previous 
definitions,  that  this  picture  is  not  of  the  highest  order: 
the  "  Malvolio  "  is  far  more  spiritual  and  suggestive,  if 
we  may  so  speak ;  it  tells  not  only  its  own  tale  very  charm- 
ingly, but  creates  for  the  beholder  a  very  pleasant  mel- 
anchol}^  train  of  thought,  as  every  good  picture  does  in  its 
kind,  from  a  six-inch  canvas  by  Hobbema  or  Ruysdael 
up  to  a  thousand-foot  wall  of  Michael  Angelo.  If  you 
read  over  the  banquet-scene  in  words,  it  leaves  an  im- 
pression far  more  dreadful  and  lively.  On  the  stage,  it 
has  alwaj^s  seemed  to  us  to  fail;  and  though  out  of  a 
trap-door  in  the  middle  of  it  Mr.  Cooper  is  seen  to  rise 
very  solemnly, — his  face  covered  with  white,  and  a  dread- 
ful gash  of  vermilion  across  his  neck ;  though  he  nods 
and  waggles  his  head  about  in  a  very  quiet  ghostlike 
manner;  yet,  strange  to  say,  neither  this  scene,  nor  this 
great  actor,  has  ever  frightened  us,  as  they  both  should, 
as  the  former  does  when  we  read  it  at  home.  The  fact 
is,  that  it  is  quite  out  of  Mr.  Cooper's  power  to  look 
ghostly  enough,  or,  perhaps,  to  soar  along  with  us  to  that 
sublime  height  to  which  our  imagination  is  continually 
carrying  us. 

A  large  part  of  this  vast  picture  Mr.  ISIaclise  has 
painted  very  finely.  The  lords  are  all  there  in  gloomy 
state,  fierce  stalwart  men  in  steel;  the  variety  of  atti- 
tude and  light  in  which  the  different  groups  are  placed, 
the  wonderful  knowledge  and  firmness  with  which  each 
individual  figure  and  feature  are  placed  down  upon 
the  canvas  will  be  understood  and  admired  by  the  public, 
but  by  the  artist  still  more,  who  knows  the  difficulty  of 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  417 

these  things,  which  seem  so  easy,  which  are  so  easy,  no 
doubt,  to  a  man  with  Mr.  Machse's  extraordinary  gifts. 
How  fine  is  yonder  group  at  the  farthest  table,  Hghted 
up  by  the  reflected  Hght  from  the  armour  of  one  of 
them!  The  effect,  as  far  as  we  know,  is  entirely  new; 
the  figures  drawn  with  exquisite  minuteness  and  clear- 
ness, not  in  the  least  interrupting  the  general  har- 
mony of  the  picture.  Look  at  the  two  women  standing 
near  Ladv  Macbeth's  throne,  and  those  beautiful  little 
hands  of  one  of  them  placed  over  the  state-chair:  the 
science,  workmanship,  feeling  in  these  figures  are  alike 
wonderful.  The  face,  bust,  and  attitude  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth are  grandly  designed ;  the  figures  to  her  right,  with 
looks  of  stern  doubt  and  wonder,  are  nobly  designed  and 
arranged.  The  main  figure  of  INIacbeth,  I  confess,  does 
not  please;  nor  the  object  which  has  occasioned  the 
frightful  convulsive  attitude  in  which  he  stands.  He 
sees  not  the  ghost  of  Banquo,  but  a  huge,  indistinct, 
gory  shadow,  ^vhich  seems  to  shake  its  bloody  locks,  and 
frown  upon  him.  Through  this  shade,  intercei^ted  only 
by  its  lurid  transparency,  you  see  the  figures  of  the 
guests ;  they  are  looking  towards  it,  and  through  it.  The 
skill  with  which  this  point  is  made  is  unquestionable; 
there  is  something  there,  and  nothing.  The  spectators 
feel  this  as  well  as  the  painted  actors  of  the  scene ;  there 
are  times  when,  in  looking  at  the  picture,  one  loses  sight 
of  the  shade  altogether,  and  begins  to  wonder  with 
Rosse,  Lenox,  and  the  rest. 

The  idea,  then,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  as  excellently 
worked  out  as  it  is  daringly  conceived.  But  is  it  a  just 
one?  I  think  not.  I  should  say  it  was  a  grim  piece  of 
comedy  rather  than  tragedy.  One  is  puzzled  by  this 
piece    of    diablerie, — not    deeply    affected    and    awe- 


418  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

stricken,  as  in  the  midst  of  such  heroical  characters  and 
circumstances  one  should  be. 

"A vaunt,  and  quit  my  sight !    Let  the  earth  hide  thee ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless — thy  blood  is  cold; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with." 

Before  the  poet's  eyes,  at  least,  the  figure  of  the  ghost 
stood  complete — an  actual  visible  body,  with  the  life 
gone  out  of  it;  an  image  far  more  grand  and  dreadful 
than  the  painter's  fantastical  shadow,  because  more 
simple.  The  shadow  is  an  awful  object, — granted;  but 
the  most  sublime,  beautiful,  fearful  sight  in  all  nature 
is,  surely,  the  face  of  a  man;  wonderful  in  all  its  ex- 
pressions of  grief  or  joj^,  daring  or  endurance,  thought, 
hope,  love,  or  pain.  How  Shakspeare  painted  all  these ; 
with  what  careful  thought  and  brooding  were  all  his  im- 
aginary creatures  made! 

I  believe  we  have  mentioned  the  best  figure-pieces  in 
the  exhibition;  for,  alas!  the  "Milton  and  his  Daugh- 
ters" of  Sir  Augustus  Callcott,  although  one  of  the 
biggest  canvases  in  the  gallery,  is  by  no  means  one  of 
the  best;  and  one  may  regret  that  this  most  spiritiiel 
of  landscape-painters  should  have  forsaken  his  old 
style  to  follow  figure-drawing.  Mr.  Hollins  has  a  pic- 
ture of  "  Benvenuto  Cellini  showing  a  Trinket  to  a 
Lady."  A  subject  of  absorbing  interest  and  passionate 
excitement,  ])ainted  in  a  corresponding  manner.  A  prim 
lady  sits  smiling  in  a  chair,  by  a  table,  on  which  is  a  very 
neat  regular  tablecloth,  drawn  at  right  angles  with  the 
]jictin-e-f rame ;  parallel  with  the  table  is  a  chest  of 
drawers,  secretaire,  cabinet,  or  haliut.  Near  this  stands 
a  waiting-maid,  smiling  archly ;  and  in  front  you  behold 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  419 

young  Benvenuto,  spick  and  span  in  his  very  best  clothes 
and  silk  stockings,  looking — as  Benvenuto  never  did  in 
his  life.  Of  some  parts  of  this  picture,  the  colour  and 
workmanship  are  very  j^rettj^;  but  was  there  ever  such 
a  niminypiminy  subject  treated  in  such  a  niminypiminy 
way?  We  can  remember  this  gentleman's  picture  of 
"  Margaret  at  the  Spinning-wheel "  last  year,  and  should 
be  glad  to  see  and  laud  others  that  were  equally  pretty. 
Mr.  Lauder  has,  in  the  same  room,  a  pleasing  picture 
from  Walter  Scott,  "The  Glee-Maiden;"  and  a  large 
sketch,  likewise  from  Scott,  by  a  French  artist  (who 
has  been  celebrated  in  this  Magazine  as  the  author  of  the 
picture  "The  Sinking  of  the  'Vengeur'"),  is  fine  in 
effect  and  composition. 

If  Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  Travellers  taking  Re- 
freshment at  a  Convent  Gate  "  has  not  produced  much 
sensation,  it  is  because  it  is  feeble  in  tone,  not  very  strik- 
ing in  subject,  and  placed  somewhat  too  high.  There  is 
a  great  deal  of  beauty  and  delicacy  in  all  the  figures ;  and 
though  lost  here,  amidst  the  glare  and  bustle  of  the 
Academy,  it  will  be  an  excellent  j)icture  for  the  cabinet, 
where  its  quiet  graces  and  merits  will  be  better  seen. 

Mr.  Webster's  "  Punch,"  before  alluded  to,  deserves 
a  great  deal  of  praise.  The  landscape  is  beautiful,  the 
group  of  little  figures  assembled  to  view  the  show  are 
delightfully  gay  and  pretty.  Mr.  Webster  has  the 
bump  of  philoprogenitiveness  (as  some  ninny  says  of 
George  Cruikshank  in  the  Westminster  Review)  ;  and 
all  mothers  of  large  families,  young  ladies  who  hope  to 
be  so  one  day  or  the  other,  and  honest  papas,  are  ob- 
served to  examine  this  picture  with  much  smiling  inter- 
est. It  is  full  of  sunshine  and  innocent  playful  good- 
humour;  all  Punch's  audience  are  on  the  grin.     John, 


420  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

the  squire's  footman,  is  looking  on  with  a  protecting  air; 
the  old  village  folk  are  looking  on,  grinning  with  the 
very  youngest;  boys  are  scampering  over  the  common, 
in  order  to  be  in  time  for  the  show ;  Punchman  is  tootoo- 
ing  on  the  pipes,  and  banging  away  on  the  drum ;  potboy 
has  consigned  to  the  earth  his  precious  cargo,  and  the 
head  of  every  tankard  of  liquor  is  wasting  its  frothy 
fragrance  in  the  air ;  in  like  manner,  the  pieman  permits 
his  wares  to  get  cold;  nurserymaids,  schoolboys,  happy 
children  in  go-carts,  are  employed  in  a  similar  way:  in- 
deed, a  delightful  little  rustic  comedy. 

In  respect  of  portraits,  the  prettiest,  as  I  fancy,  after 
Wilkie's  splendid  picture  of  Mrs.  Ferguson,  is  one  by 
Mr.  Grant,  of  a  lady  with  a  scarf  of  a  greenish  colour. 
The  whole  picture  is  of  the  same  tone,  and  beautifully 
harmonious ;  nor  are  the  lady's  face  and  air  the  least  ele- 
gant and  charming  part  of  it.  The  Duke  has  been 
painted  a  vast  number  of  times,  such  are  the  penalties 
of  glory;  nor  is  it  possible  to  conceive  anything  much 
worse  than  that  portrait  of  him  in  Avhich  Colonel  Gur- 
wood  is  represented  by  his  side,  in  a  red  velvet  waistcoat, 
offering  to  his  Grace  certain  despatches.  It  is  in  the 
style  of  the  famous  picture  in  the  Regent  Circus,  repre- 
senting Mr.  Coleby  the  cigarist,  an  orange,  a  pineapple, 
a  champagne-cork,  a  little  dog,  some  decanters,  and  a 
yellow  bandanna,— all  which  personages  appear  to  be  so 
excessively  important,  that  the  puzzled  eyes  scarcely 
know  upon  which  to  settle.  In  like  manner,  in  the  Wel- 
lington-Gurwood  testimonial,  the  accessories  are  so  nu- 
merous, and  so  brilliantly  coloured,  that  it  is  long  before 
one  can  look  up  to  the  countenances  of  the  Colonel  and 
his  Grace;  which,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  are  the  main  ob- 
jects of  interest  in  the  piece.    And  this  plan  has  been  not 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  421 

unartfully  contrived,— for  the  heads  are  by  no  means 
painted  up  to  the  point  of  briUiancy  which  is  visible  in 
boots,  clocks,  bell-pulls,  Turkey  carpets,  arm-chairs,  and 
other  properties  here  painted. 

Now,  if  the  artist  of  the  above  picture  wishes  to  know 
how  properties  may  be  painted  with  all  due  minuteness, 
and  yet  conduce  to  the  general  effect  of  the  picture,  let 
him  examine  the  noble  little  portrait  of  Lord  Cottenham, 
by  Leslie, — the  only  contribution  of  this  great  man  to 
the  exhibition.  Here  are  a  number  of  accessories  intro- 
duced, but  with  that  forethought  and  sense  of  propriety 
which,  as  I  fancy,  distinguish  all  the  works  of  ]Mr.  Les- 
lie. They  are  not  here  for  mere  picturesque  effect  or 
ornamental  huddle ;  but  are  made  to  tell  the  story  of  the 
piece,  and  indicate  the  character  of  the  dignified  person- 
age who  fills  the  centre  of  it.  The  black  brocade  drapery 
of  the  Chancellor's  gown  is  accurately  painted,  and  falls 
in  that  majestic  grave  way  in  which  a  chancellor's  robe 
should  fall.  Are  not  the  learned  lord's  arms  somewhat 
short  and  fin-like  ?  This  is  a  query  which  we  put  humbly, 
having  never  had  occasion  to  remark  that  part  of  his 
person. 

Mr.  Briggs  has  his  usual  pleasant  well-painted  por- 
traits ;  and  ]Mr.  Patten  a  long  full-length  of  Prince  Al- 
bert that  is  not  admired  by  artists,  it  is  said,  but  a  good 
downright  honest  bourgeois  picture,  as  we  fancy;  or, 
as  a  facetious  friend  remarked,  good  plain  roast-and- 
hoiled  painting.  As  for  the  portrait  opposite— that  of 
her  JNIajesty,  it  is  a  sheer  libel  upon  that  pretty  gracious 
countenance,  an  act  of  rebellion  for  which  Sir  David 
should  be  put  into  York  gaol.  Parts  of  the  picture  are, 
however,  splendidly  painted.  And  here,  being  upon  the 
subject,  let  us  say  a  word  in  praise  of  those  two  delight- 


422  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

fill  lithographic  heads,  after  Ross,  which  appear  in 
the  printshop  windows.  Our  gracious  Queen's  head  is 
here  most  charming;  and  that  of  the  Prince  full  of 
such  manly  frankness  and  benevolence  as  must  make 
all  men  cry  "God  bless  him."  I  would  much  sooner 
possess  a  copy  of  the  Ross  miniature  of  the  Queen, 
than  a  cast  from  her  Majesty's  bust  by  Sir  Francis 
Chantrey,  which  has  the  place  of  honour  in  the  sculpture 
vault. 

All  Macdonald's  busts  deserve  honourable  notice. 
This  lucky  sculptor  has  some  beautiful  subjects  to 
model,  and  beautiful  and  graceful  all  his  marbles  are. 
As  much  may  be  said  of  Mr.  M'Dowell's  girl, — the  only 
piece  of  imaginative  sculpture  in  the  Academy  that  has 
struck  us  as  pleasing.  Mr.  Behnes,  too,  should  receive 
many  commendations;  an  old  man's  head  particularly, 
that  is  full  of  character  and  goodness;  and  "  The  Bust  of 
a  Lady,"  which  may  be  called  "  A  Lady  with  a  Bust," — 
a  beautiful  bust,  indeed,  of  which  the  original  and  the 
artist  have  both  good  right  to  be  proud.  Mr.  Bell's  vir- 
gin is  not  so  pleasing  in  the  full  size  as  in  the  miniature 
copy  of  it. 

For  the  matter  of  landscapes,  we  confess  ourselves  to 
be  no  very  ardent  admirers  of  these  performances, 
clever  and  dexterous  as  most  of  them  are.  The  works 
of  Mr.  Stanfield  and  INIr.  Roberts  cannot  fail  to  be  skil- 
ful; and  both  of  these  famous  artists  show  their  won- 
derful power  of  drawing,  as  usual.  But  these  skilful 
pictures  have  always  appeared  to  us  more  pleasing  in 
little  on  the  sketching-board  than  when  expanded  uj)on 
the  canvas.  A  couple  of  Martins  must  be  mentioned, — 
huge,  queer,  and  tawdry  to  our  eyes,  but  very  much  ad- 
mired by  the  public,  wlio  is  no  bad  connoisseur,  after  all; 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  423 

and  also  a  fine  Castle  of  Chillon,  or  Chalon,  rudely 
painted,  but  very  poetical  and  impressive. 

[Here  Titmarsh  exchanges  his  check  at  the  door  for  a  valuable 
gingham  umbrella,  with  a  yellow  horn-head,  representing  Lord 
Brougham  or  Doctor  Syntax,  and  is  soon  seen,  with  his  hat 
very  much  on  one  side,  swaggering  down  Pall  Mall  East,  to  the 
Water-Colour  Gallery.  He  flings  down  eighteenpence  in  the 
easiest  way,  and  goes  upstairs.] 

Accident,  or,  what  is  worse,  ill  health,  has  deprived  us 
of  the  two  most  skilful  professors  of  the  noble  art  of 
water-colour  painting;  and,  without  the  works  of 
Messrs.  Lewis  and  Cattermole,  the  gallery  looks  empty 
indeed.  Those  gentlemen  are  accustomed  to  suppl}^  the 
picture-lover  with  the  pieces  de  resistance  of  the  feast, 
with  which,  being  decently  satisfied,  we  can  trifle  with  an 
old  market-place  by  Prout,  or  six  cows  and  four  pigs  by 
Hill,  or  a  misty  Downs  by  Copley  Fielding,  with  some 
degree  of  pleasure.  Discontented,  then,  with  the  ab- 
sence of  the  substantials,  it  must  be  confessed  that  we 
have  been  examining  the  rest  of  the  pictures  in  no  very 
good  humour.  And  so,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I  do  not  care 
a  fig  for  all  the  old  town-halls  in  the  world,  though  they 
be  drawn  never  so  skilfully.  How  long  are  we  to  go  on 
with  Venice,  Verona,  Lago  di  Soandso,  and  Ponte  di 
What-d'ye-call-'em?  I  am  weary  of  gondolas,  striped 
awnings,  sailors  with  red  night  (or  rather  day)  caps,  co- 
balt distances,  and  posts  in  the  water.  I  have  seen  so 
many  white  palaces  standing  before  dark  purple  skies,  so 
many  black  towers  with  gamboge  atmospheres  behind 
them,  so  many  masses  of  rifle-green  trees  plunged  into 
the  deepest  shadow,  in  the  midst  of  sunshiny  plains,  for  no 
other  reason  but  because  dark  and  light  contrast  together, 


424  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

that  a  slight  expression  of  satiety  may  be  permitted  to 
me,  and  a  longing  for  more  simple  nature.  On  a  great 
staring  theatre  such  pictures  may  do  very  well— you  are 
obliged  there  to  seek  for  these  startling  contrasts;  and 
by  the  aid  of  blue  lights,  red  lights,  transparencies,  and 
plenty  of  drums  and  appropriate  music,  the  scene  thus 
presented  to  one  captivates  the  eye,  and  calls  down 
thunder  from  the  galleries. 

But  in  little  quiet  rooms,  on  sheets  of  paper  of  a  yard 
square,  such  monstrous  theatrical  eif  ects  are  sadly  pain- 
ful. You  don't  mistake  patches  of  brickdust  for  maid- 
ens' blushes,  or  fancy  that  tinfoil  is  diamonds,  or  require 
to  be  spoken  to  with  the  utmost  roar  of  the  lungs.  Why, 
in  painting,  are  we  to  have  monstrous,  flaring,  Drury 
Lane  tricks  and  claptraps  put  in  practice,  when  a  quieter 
style  is,  as  I  fancy,  so  infinitely  more  charming? 

There  is  no  use  in  mentioning  the  names  of  persons 
who  are  guilty  of  the  above  crimes ;  but  let  us  say  who  is 
not  guilty,  and  that  is  D.  Cox,  upon  whose  quiet  land- 
scapes, moist  grass,  cool  trees,  the  refreshed  eye  rests 
with  the  utmost  pleasure,  after  it  has  been  perplexed  and 
dazzled  elsewhere.  May  we  add  an  humble  wish  that 
this  excellent  painter  will  remain  out  of  doors,  amidst 
such  quiet  scenes  as  he  loves,  and  not  busy  himself  with 
Gothicism,  middleageism,  and  the  painting  of  quaint 
interiors  ?  There  are  a  dozen  artists,  of  not  a  tithe  of  his 
genius,  who  can  excel  him  at  the  architectural  work. 
There  is,  for  instance,  Mr.  Nash,  who  is  improving 
yearly,  and  whose  pictures  are  not  only  most  dexterously 
sketched,  but  contain  numberless  little  episodes,  in  the 
shape  of  groups  of  figures,  that  are  full  of  grace  and 
feeling.  There  is  Mr.  Haghe,  too,  of  the  lower  house; 
but  of  liim  anon. 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  425 

To  show  how  ill  and  how  well  a  man  may  paint  at  the 
same  time,  the  public  may  look  at  a  couj^le  of  drawings 
by  J.  Xash, — one,  the  interior  of  a  church;  the  other,  a 
plain  landscape :  both  of  which  are  executed  with  exces- 
sive, almost  childish  rudeness,  and  are  yet  excellent,  as 
being  close  copies  of  the  best  of  all  drawing-masters, 
Nature :  and  JNIr.  Barrett,  w^ho  has  lately  written  a  book 
for  students,  tells  them  very  sagaciously  not  to  copy  the 
manner  of  any  master,  however  much  he  may  be  in  the 
mode.  Some  there  are,  fashionable  instructors  in  the 
art  of  water-colouring,  of  whom,  indeed,  a  man  had 
better  not  learn  at  any  price ;  nay,  were  they  to  offer  a 
guinea  per  lesson,  instead  of  modestly  demanding  the 
same,  the  reader  should  be  counselled  not  to  accept  of 
their  instructions. 

See  in  what  a  different  school  JNIr.  Hunt  works,  and 
what  marvellous  effects  he  produces!  There  is  a  small 
picture  of  an  interior  by  him  (to  which  the  blue  ticket 
having  the  pretty  word  sold  written  on  it  is  not  fixed) 
that,  as  a  copy  of  nature,  is  a  perfect  miracle.  No  De 
Hooghe  was  ever  better,  more  airy  and  sunshiny.  And 
the  most  extraordinary  part  of  this  extraordinary  pic- 
ture is,  that  the  artist  has  not  produced  his  effect  of  ex- 
cessive brilliancy  by  any  violent  contrasting  darkness; 
but  the  whole  picture  is  light;  the  sunshine  is  in  every 
corner  of  the  room;  and  this  drawing  remains  unsold, 
while  Dash,  and  Blank,  and  Asterisk  have  got  off  all 
theirs.  The  large  head  of  the  black  girl  is  painted  with 
wonderful  power;  in  water-colours,  we  have  scarcelj'- 
seen  anything  so  vigorous.  The  boys  and  virgins  are, 
as  usual,  admirable;  the  lad  with  the  bottle,  he  reading 
ballads  in  the  barn,  and  the  red,  ragged,  brickdust-col- 
oured,  brigand-looking  fellow,  especially  good.     In  a 


426  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

corner  is  a  most  astonishing  young  gentleman  with  a 
pan  of  milk :  he  is  stepping  forward  full  into  your  face ; 
and  has  seen  something  in  it  M^iich  has  caused  him  to  spill 
his  milk  and  look  dreadfully  frightened.  Every  man 
who  is  worth  a  fig,  as  he  comes  up  to  this  picture  bursts 
out  a-laughing — he  can't  help  himself;  you  hear  a  dozen 
such  laughs  in  the  course  of  your  visit.  Why  does  this 
little  drawing  so  seize  hold  of  the  beholder  and  cause 
him  to  roar?  There  is  the  secret:  the  painter  has  got  the 
soul  of  comedy  in  him — the  undefinable  humorous  ge- 
nius. Happy  is  the  man  who  possesses  that  drawing:  a 
man  must  laugh  if  he  were  taking  his  last  look  at  it  be- 
fore being  hanged. 

Mr.  Taylor's  flowing  pencil  has  produced  several 
pieces  of  delightful  colour ;  but  we  are  led  bitterly  to  de- 
plore the  use  of  that  fatal  white-lead  pot,  that  is  clog- 
ging and  blackening  the  pictures  of  so  many  of  the 
water-colour  painters  nowadays.  His  large  picture  con- 
tains a  great  deal  of  this  white  mud,  and  has  lost,  as  w^e 
fancy,  in  consequence,  much  of  that  liquid  mellow  tone 
for  which  his  works  are  remarkable.  The  retreating 
figures  in  this  picture  are  beautiful;  the  horses  are  ex- 
cellently painted,  with  as  much  dexterous  brilliancy  of 
colour  as  one  sees  in  the  oil  pictures  of  Landseer.  If 
the  amateur  wants  to  see  how  far  transparent  colour 
will  go,  what  rich  effect  may  be  produced  by  it,  how  little 
necessary  it  is  to  plaster  drawings  with  flakes  of  white, 
let  him  examine  the  background  of  the  design  repre- 
senting a  page  asleep  on  a  chair,  than  which  nothing  can 
be  more  melodious  in  colour,  or  more  skilfully  and  nat- 
urally  painted. 

In  the  beauty  gallery  which  this  exliibition  usually 
furnishes,  there  is  Mr.  Richter,  who  contributes  his  usual 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  427 

specimens ;  the  fair  ]\Iiss  Sharpe,  with  those  languishing- 
eyed  charmers  whom  the  world  admires  so  much;  and 
still  more  to  our  taste,  a  sweet  pretty  lady,  by  ^Ir.  Stone, 
in  a  hideous  dress,  with  upper-Benjamin  buttons;  a 
couple  of  very  graceful  and  delicate  heads  by  Wright; 
and  one  beautiful  head,  a  portrait  evidently,  by  Cristall, 
that  is  placed  very  modestly  in  a  corner  near  the  ground 
— where  such  a  drawing  should  be  placed,  of  course,  be- 
ing vigorous,  honest,  natural,  and  beautiful.  This  art- 
ist's other  drawings— a  mysterious  subject,  representing 
primaeval  Scotchmen,  rocks,  waterfalls,  a  cataract  of 
bulls,  and  other  strange  things,  looks  like  a  picture 
painted  in  a  dream.  Near  it  hangs  Mr.  INIackenzie's 
view  of  Saint  Denis's  Cathedral,  that  is  painted  with 
great  carefulness,  and  is  very  true  to  nature.  And  hav- 
ing examined  this,  and  ^Ir.  Varley's  fine  gloomy 
sketches,  you  shall  be  no  longer  detained  at  this  place, 
but  walk  on  to  see  what  more  remains  to  be  seen. 

Of  the  New  Water-Colour  Society,  I  think  it  may  be 
asserted  that  their  gallery  contains  neither  such  good 
nor  such  bad  drawings  as  may  be  seen  in  the  senior  ex- 
hibition ;  unless,  indeed,  we  except  INIr.  Haghe,  a  gentle- 
man who  in  architectural  subjects  has  a  marvellous  skill, 
and  whose  work  deserves  to  be  studied  by  all  persons 
who  follow  the  trade  of  water-colouring.  This  gentle- 
man appears  to  have  a  profound  knowledge  (or  an 
extraordinary  instinct)  of  his  profession  as  an  architec- 
tural draughtsman.  There  are  no  tricks,  no  clumsy  plas- 
tering of  M^iite,  no  painful  niggling,  nor  swaggering 
affectation  of  boldness.  He  seems  to  understand  every 
single  tone  and  line  which  he  lays  down;  and  his  picture, 
in  my  humble  judgment,  contains  some  of  the  very  best 


428  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

qualities  of  which  this  branch  of  painting  is  capable. 
You  cannot  produce  by  any  combination  of  water-col- 
ours such  effects  as  may  be  had  from  oil,  such  richness 
and  depth  of  tone,  such  pleasing  variety  of  texture,  as 
gums  and  varnishes  will  give;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  many  beauties  peculiar  to  the  art,  which  the  oil- 
painter  cannot  arrive  at, — such  as  air,  brightness,  cool- 
ness, and  flatness  of  surface;  points  which  painters  un- 
derstand and  can  speak  of  a  great  deal  better  than 
amateur  writers  and  readers.  Why  will  the  practitioners, 
then,  be  so  ambitious  ?  Why  strive  after  effects  that  are 
only  to  be  got  imperfectly  at  best,  and  at  the  expense  of 
qualities  far  more  valuable  and  pleasing?  There  are 
some  aspiring  individuals  who  will  strive  to  play  a  whole 
band  of  music  off  a  guitar,  or  to  perform  the  broad- 
sword exercise  with  a  rapier, — monstrous  attempts,  that 
the  moral  critic  must  lift  up  his  voice  to  reprehend. 
Valuable  instruments  are  guitars  and  small-swords  in 
themselves,  the  one  for  making  pleasant  small  music, 
the  other  for  drilling  small  holes  in  the  human  person; 
but  let  the  professor  of  each  art  do  his  agreeable  duty  in 
his  own  line,  nor  strive  wdth  his  unequal  weapons  to  com- 
pete with  persons  who  have  greater  advantages.  In- 
deed, I  have  seldom  seen  the  works  of  a  skilful  water- 
colour  painter  of  figures,  without  regretting  that  he  had 
not  taken  to  oil,  which  would  allow  him  to  put  forth  all 
the  vigour  of  which  he  was  capable.  For  works,  how- 
ever, like  that  of  Mr.  Haghe,  which  are  not  finished  pic- 
tures, but  admirable  finished  sketches,  water  is  best ;  and 
we  wish  that  his  brethren  followed  his  manner  of  using 
it.  Take  warning  by  these  remarks,  O  Mr.  Absolon! 
Your  interiors  have  been  regarded  by  Titmarsh  with 
much  pleasure,  and  deserve  at  his  hands  a  great  deal 


A  PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY  429 

of  commendation.  Mr.  Absolon,  we  take  it,  has  been 
brought  up  in  a  French  school — there  are  many  traces 
of  foreign  manner  in  him;  his  figures,  for  instance, 
are  better  costumed  than  those  of  our  common 
Enghsh  artists.  Look  at  the  httle  sketch  which 
goes  by  the  laconic  title  of  "Jump."  Let  Mrs.  Seyf- 
farth  come  and  look  at  it  before  she  paints  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley's  figure  again,  and  she  will  see  what  an  air  of 
life  and  authenticity  the  designer  has  thrown  into  his 
work.  Several  larger  j)ieces  by  INIr.  Absolon,  in  which 
are  a  face — is  it  the  artist's  own,  by  any  chance? —  (We 
fancy  that  we  have  a  knack  at  guessing  a  portrait  of  an 
artist  by  himself,  having  designed  about  five  thousand 
such  in  our  own  experience, — "Portrait  of  a  Painter," 
"  A  Gentleman  in  a  Vandyke  Dress,"  "  A  Brigand," 
"A  Turkish  Costume,"  and  so  on:  they  are  somehow  al- 
ways rejected  by  those  cursed  Academicians)  — but  to 
return  to  Absolon,  whom  we  have  left  hanging  up  all 
this  time  on  the  branch  of  a  sentence,  he  has  taken 
hugely  to  the  body-colour  system  within  the  last  twelve 
months,  and  small  good  has  it  done  him.  The  accesso- 
ries of  his  pictures  are  painted  with  much  vigour  and 
feeling  of  colour,  are  a  great  deal  stronger  than  hereto- 
fore—  a  great  deal  too  strong  for  the  figures  themselves; 
and  the  figures  being  painted  chiefly  in  transparent  col- 
our, will  not  bear  the  atmosphere  of  distemper  by  which 
they  are  surrounded.  The  picture  of  "  The  Bachelor  " 
is  excellent  in  point  of  effect  and  justness  of  colour. 

Mr.  Corbould  is  a  gentleman  who  must  be  mentioned 
with  a  great  deal  of  praise.  His  large  drawing  of  the 
"  Canterbury  Pilgrims  at  the  Tabard  "  is  very  gay  and 
sparkling ;  and  the  artist  shows  that  he  possesses  a  genu- 
ine antiquarian  or  Walter- Scottish  spirit.     It  is  a  pity 


430  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

that  his  people  are  all  so  uncommon  handsome.  It  is  a 
pity  that  his  ladies  wear  such  uncommonly  low  dresses — 
they  did  not  wear  such  (according  to  the  best  authori- 
ties) in  Chaucer's  time;  and  even  if  they  did,  Mr.  Cor- 
bould  had  much  better  give  them  a  little  more  cloth, 
which  costs  nothing,  and  would  spare  much  painful 
blushing  to  modest  men  like — never  mind  whom.  But 
this  is  a  moral  truth :  nothing  is  so  easy  to  see  in  a  painter 
as  a  certain  inclination  towards  naughtiness,  which  we 
press-Josephs  are  bound  to  cry  fie  at.  Cover  them  up, 
Mr.  Corbould — muslin  is  the  word;  but  of  this  no  more. 
Where  the  painter  departs  from  his  line  of  beauty,  his 
faces  have  considerable  humour  and  character.  The 
whole  of  the  pilgrim  group,  as  he  has  depicted  it,  is 
exceedingly  picturesque.  It  might  be  painted  with  a 
little  more  strength,  and  a  good  deal  less  finical  trifling 
with  the  pencil;  but  of  these  manual  errors  the  painter 
will  no  doubt  get  the  better  as  his  practice  and  experience 
increase. 

Here  is  a  large  and  interesting  picture  by  Mr.  War- 
ren, of  the  Pasha  of  Egypt  in  the  middle  of  the  Nubian 
desert,  surrounded  by  pipe-bearers  and  camels,  and  tak- 
ing his  cup  of  cofi*ee.  There  is  much  character  both  in 
the  figures  and  scenery.  A  slight  sketch  by  the  same 
artist,  "  The  King  in  Thule,"  is  very  pretty,  and  would 
make  a  very  good  picture. 

Mr.  Bright  is  an  artist  of  whom  we  do  not  before  re- 
member to  have  heard.  His  pictures  are  chiefly  effects 
of  sunset  and  moonlight;  of  too  criarde  a  colour  as  re- 
gards sun  and  moon,  but  pretty  and  skilful  in  other 
points,  and  of  a  style  that  strikes  us  as  almost  new.  The 
manner  of  a  French  artist,  Monsieur  Collignon,  some- 
what resembles  that  of  Mr.  Bright.     The  cool  parts  of 


A  PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY  431 

his  pictures  are  excellent ;  but  he  has  dangerous  dealings 
with  gamboge  and  orange,  pigments  with  the  use  of 
which  a  painter  is  bound  to  be  uncommonly  cautious. 
Look  at  ]Mr.  Turner,  who  has  taken  to  them  until  they 
have  driven  him  quite  wild.  If  there  be  any  Emperor 
of  the  Painters,  he  should  issue  "  a  special  edict "  against 
the  gamboge-dealers:  —  'tis  a  deleterious  drug.  "Has- 
ten, hasten,"  Mr.  Bright;  "obey  with  trembling,"  and 
have  a  care  of  gamboge  henceforth. 

For  the  rest  of  the  artists  at  this  place,  it  may  be  said 
that  Mr.  Hicks  has  not  been  quite  so  active  this  year  as 
formerly;  ISIr.  Boys  has  some  delightful  drawings  in  his 
style  of  art;  and  for  the  curious  there  is,  moreover,  a 
second-hand  Cattermole,  a  sham  Prout,  a  pseudo-Bent- 
ley,  and  a  small  double  of  Cox,  whose  works  are  to  be 
seen  in  various  parts  of  the  room.  Miss  Corbould  has  a 
pretty  picture.  INIr.  Duncan's  drawings  exhibit  consid- 
erable skill  and  fidelity  to  nature.  And  here  we  must 
close  our  list  of  the  juniors,  whose  exhibition  is  very  well 
worth  the  shilling  which  all  must  pay  who  would  enter 
their  pretty  gallery. 

We  have  been  through  a  number  of  picture  galleries, 
and  cannot  do  better  than  go  and  visit  a  gentleman  who 
has  a  gallery  of  his  own,  containing  only  one  picture. 
We  mean  Mr.  Danby,  with  his  "  Deluge,"  now  visible  in 
Piccadilly.  Every  person  in  London  will  no  doubt  go 
and  see  this :  artists,  because  the  treatment  and  effect  of 
the  picture  are  extraordinarily  skilful  and  broad;  and 
the  rest  of  the  world,  who  cannot  fail  of  being  deeply 
moved  by  the  awful  tragedy  which  is  here  laid  before 
them.  The  work  is  full  of  the  strongest  dramatic  inter- 
est ;  a  vast  performance,  grandly  treated,  and  telling  in 
a  wonderful  way  its  solemn  awful  tale.     Mr.  Danby  has 


432  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

given  a  curious  desci'iption  of  it  to  our  hand;  and  from 
this  the  reader  will  be  able  to  understand  what  is  the  de- 
sign and  treatment  of  the  piece. 

[Here  follows  a  long  description  of  the  picture.] 

The  episode  of  the  angel  is  the  sole  part  of  the  picture 
with  which  we  should  be  disposed  to  quarrel;  but  the 
rest,  which  has  been  excellently  described  in  the  queer 
wild  words  of  the  artist,  is  really  as  grand  and  magnifi- 
cent a  conception  as  ever  we  saw.  Why  Poussin's 
famous  picture  of  an  inundation  has  been  called  "  The 
Deluge,"  I  never  could  understand:  it  is  only  a  very 
small  and  partial  deluge.  The  artist  has  genius  enough, 
if  any  artist  ever  had,  to  have  executed  a  work  far  more 
vast  and  tremendous ;  nor  does  his  picture  at  the  Louvre, 
nor  Turner's  Deluge,  nor  iNIartin's,  nor  any  that  we  have 
ever  seen,  at  all  stand  a  competition  with  this  extraordi- 
nary performance  of  ^Ir.  Danby.  He  has  painted  the 
picture  of  "  The  Deluge;  "  we  have  before  our  eyes  still 
the  ark  in  the  midst  of  the  ruin  floating  calm  and  lonely, 
the  great  black  cataracts  of  water  pouring  down,  the  mad 
rush  of  the  miserable  people  clambering  up  the  rocks;— 
nothing  can  be  finer  than  the  way  in  which  the  artist  has 
painted  the  picture  in  all  its  innumerable  details,  and  we 
hope  to  hear  that  his  room  will  be  hourly  crowded,  and 
his  great  labour  and  genius  rewarded  in  some  degree. 

Let  us  take  some  rest  after  beholding  this  pic- 
ture, and  what  place  is  cooler  and  more  quiet  than 
the  Suffolk  Street  Gallery?  If  not  remarkable  for 
anj^  pictures  of  extraordinary  merit,  it  is  at  least  to 
be  praised  as  a  place  singularly  favourable  to  medi- 


A  PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY  433 

tation.  It  is  a  sweet  calm  solitude,  lighted  from  the 
top  with  convenient  blinds  to  keep  out  the  sun.  If 
you  have  an  assionation,  bid  vour  mistress  to  come 
hither,  there  is  only  a  dumb  secretary  in  the  room; 
and  sitting,  like  the  man  in  the  "Arabian  Nights," 
perpetually  before  a  great  book,  in  which  he  pores.  This 
would  be  a  grand  place  to  hatch  a  conspiracy,  to  avoid  a 
dun,  to  write  an  epic  poem.  Something  ails  the  place! 
What  is  it?— what  keeps  the  people  away,  and  gives  the 
moneytaker  in  his  box  a  gloomy  lonely  sinecure  ?  Alas, 
and  alas!  not  even  ^Ir.  Hay  don's  "  Samson  Agonistes" 
is  strong  enough  to  pull  the  people  in. 

And  yet  this  picture  is  worth  going  to  see.  You  may 
here  take  occasion  to  observe  the  truth  of  INIr.  Yorke's 
astute  remark  about  another  celebrated  artist,  and  see 
how  bad  a  painter  is  this  great  xcriter  of  historical  paint- 
ings, Mr.  Haydon.  There  is  an  account  in  some  of  the 
late  papers — from  America,  of  course— of  a  remarkably 
fat  boy,  three  years  old,  five  feet  six  high,  with  a  fine  bass 
voice,  and  a  handsome  beard  and  whiskers.  Much  such 
a  hero  is  this  Samson — a  great  red  chubby-cheeked  mon- 
ster, looking  at  you  with  the  most  earnest,  mild,  dull  eyes 
in  the  world,  and  twisting  about  a  brace  of  ropes,  as  he 
comes  sprawling  forwards.  Sprawling  backwards  is  a 
Delilah — such  a  Delilah,  with  such  an  arm,  with  such  a 
dress,  on  such  a  sofa,  with  such  a  set  of  ruffians  behind 
her!  The  picture  is  perfectly  amazing!  Is  this  the 
author  of  the  "Judgment  of  Solomon"  ? — the  restorer 
or  setter  uj)  of  the  great  style  of  painting  in  this  country? 
The  drawing  of  the  figures  is  not  only  faulty,  but  bad 
and  careless  as  can  be.  It  never  was  nor  could  be  in 
nature;  and,  such  as  it  is,  the  drawing  is  executed  in  a 
manner  so  loose  and  slovenly,  that  one  wonders  to  behold 


434  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

it.  Is  this  the  way  in  which  a  chef  d'ecole  condescends 
to  send  forth  a  picture  to  the  pubhc?  Would  he  have 
his  scholars  finish  no  more  and  draw  no  better  ?  Look  at 
a  picture  of  "  Milton  and  his  Daughters,"  the  same  sub- 
ject which  Sir  A.  Callcott  has  treated  in  the  Academy, 
which  painters  will  insist  upon  treating,  so  profoundly 
interesting  does  it  seem  to  be.  Mr.  Haydon's  "  Milton  " 
is  playing  on  the  organ,  and  turning  his  blind  eyes  to- 
wards the  public  with  an  expression  that  is  absolutely 
laughable.  A  buxom  wench  in  huge  gigot  sleeves  stands 
behind  the  chair,  another  is  at  a  table  writing.  The 
draperies  of  the  ladies  are  mere  smears  of  colour ;  in  the 
foreground  lies  a  black  cat  or  dog,  a  smudge  of  lamp- 
black, in  which  the  painter  has  not  condescended  to  draw 
a  figure.  The  chair  of  the  poetical  organ-player  is  a 
similar  lump  of  red  and  brown ;  nor  is  the  conception  of 
the  picture,  to  our  thinking,  one  whit  better  than  the  exe- 
cution. If  this  be  the  true  style  of  art,  there  is  another 
great  work  of  the  kind  at  the  "  Saracen's  Head,"  Snow 
Hill,  which  had  better  be  purchased  for  the  National 
Gallery. 

Mr.  Hurlstone  has,  as  usual,  chosen  this  retired  spot 
to  exhibit  a  very  great  number  of  pictures.  There  is 
much  good  in  almost  all  of  these.  The  children  espe- 
cially are  painted  with  great  truth  and  sweetness  of  ex- 
pression, but  we  never  shall  be  able  to  reconcile  ourselves 
to  the  extraordinary  dirtiness  of  the  colour.  Here  are 
ladies'  dresses  which  look  as  if  they  had  served  for  May- 
day, and  arms  and  shoulders  such  as  might  have  be- 
longed to  Cinderella.  Once  in  a  way  the  artist  shows 
he  can  paint  a  clean  face,  such  an  one  is  that  of  a  child 
in  the  little  room;  it  is  charming,  if  the  artist  did  but 
know  it,  how  much  more  charming  for  being  clean!    A 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  435 

very  good  picture  of  a  subject  somewhat  similar  to  those 
which  iMr.  Hurlstone  loves  to  paint  is  JMr.  Buckner's 
"  Peasants  of  Sora  in  the  Regno  di  Napoli."  The  artist 
has  seen  the  works  of  Leopold  Robert,  and  profited  evi- 
dently by  the  study  of  them. 

Concerning  other  artists  whose  works  appear  in  this 
gallery,  we  should  speak  favourably  of  Mr.  O'Neill,  who 
has  two  pretty  pictures;  of  a  couple  of  animal  pieces, 
"  A  Pony  and  Cows,"  by  Mr.  Sosi ;  and  of  a  prett}^  pic- 
ture by  jMr.  Elmore,  a  vast  deal  better  than  his  great 
Becket  performance  before  alluded  to.  Mr.  Tomkins 
has  some  skilful  street  scenes ;  and  INIr.  Holland,  a  large, 
raw,  clever  picture  of  JVIilan  Cathedral.  And  so  fare- 
well to  this  quiet  spot,  and  let  us  take  a  peep  at  the  Brit- 
ish Gallery,  where  a  whole  room  is  devoted  to  the  exhi- 
bition of  jNIr.  Plilton,  the  late  Academician. 

A  man's  sketches  and  his  pictures  should  never  be 
exhibited  together;  the  sketches  invariably  kill  the  pic- 
tures; are  far  more  vigorous,  masterly,  and  effective. 
Some  of  those  hanging  here,  chiefly  subjects  from  Spen- 
ser, are  excellent  indeed;  and  fine  in  drawing,  colour, 
and  composition.  The  decision  and  spirit  of  the  sketch 
disappear  continually  in  the  finished  piece,  as  anyone 
may  see  in  examining  the  design  for  "  Comus,"  and  the 
large  picture  afterwards,  the  two  "  Amphitrites,"  and 
many  others.  Were  the  sketches,  however,  removed,  the 
beholder  would  be  glad  to  admit  the  great  feeling  and 
grace  of  the  pictures,  and  the  kindly  poetical  spirit  which 
distinguishes  the  works  of  the  master.  Besides  the  Hil- 
tons,  the  picture-lover  has  here  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
a  fine  Virgin  by  Julio  Romano,  and  a  most  noble  one  by 
Sebastian  del  Piombo,  than  which  I  never  saw  anytliing 


436  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

more  majestically  beautiful.  The  simpering  beauties  of 
some  of  the  Virgins  of  the  Raphael  school  many  painters 
are  successful  in  imitating.  See,  O  ye  painters!  how  in 
jNIichael  Angelo  strength  and  beauty  are  here  combined, 
wonderful  chastity  and  grace,  humility,  and  a  grandeur 
almost  divine.  The  critic  must  have  a  care  as  he  talks 
of  these  pictures,  however,  for  his  words  straightway 
begin  to  grow  turgid  and  pompous ;  and,  lo !  at  the  end 
of  his  lines,  the  picture  is  not  a  whit  better  described  than 
before. 

And  now,  having  devoted  space  enough  to  the  discus- 
sion of  the  merits  of  these  different  galleries  and  paint- 
ers, I  am  come  to  the  important  part  of  this  paper — viz. 
to  my  Essay  on  the  State  of  the  Fine  Arts  in  this  King- 
dom, my  Proposals  for  the  General  Improvement  of 
Public  Taste,  and  my  Plan  for  the  Education  of  Young 
Artists. 

In  the  first  place,  I  propose  that  Government  should 
endow  a  college  for  painters,  where  they  may  receive  the 
benefits  of  a  good  literary  education,  without  which 
artists  will  never  prosper.  I  propose  that  lectures 
should  be  read,  examinations  held,  and  prizes  and  exhi- 
bitions given  to  students;  that  professorships  should  be 
instituted,  and — and  a  president  or  lord  rector  ap- 
pointed, with  a  baronetcy,  a  house,  and  a  couple  of  thou- 
sands a  year.  This  place,  of  course,  will  be  offered  to 
Michael  Angelo  Tit 

^  *  ■i^  ^  ^ 

Mr.  Titmarsh's  paper  came  to  us  exactly  as  the  reader 
here  sees  it.  His  contribution  liad  been  paid  for  in  ad- 
vance, and  we  regret  exceedingly  that  the  public  should 
be  deprived  of  what  seemed  to  be  the  most  valuable  part 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  437 

of  it.  He  has  never  been  heard  of  since  the  first  day  of 
June.  He  was  seen  on  that  day  pacing  Waterloo 
Bridge  for  two  hours;  but  whether  he  plunged  into  the 
river,  or  took  advantage  of  the  steamboat  and  went  down 
it  only,  we  cannot  state. 

Why  this  article  was  incomplete,  the  following  docu- 
ment will,  perhaps,  show.  It  is  the  work  of  the  waiter  at 
Morland's  Hotel,  where  the  eccentric  and  unhappy  gen- 
tleman resided. 

STATEMENT   BY    MRS.    BARBARA 

"  On  the  evening  of  the  30th  of  INIay,  Anay  Domino 
1840,  Mr.  ISIike  Titmash  came  into  our  house  in  a  won- 
derful state  of  delarium,  drest  in  a  new  coat,  a  new  bloo 
satting  hanky sher,  a  new  wite  at,  and  polisht  jipannd 
boots,  all  of  which  he'd  hot  sins  he  went  out  after  dinner ; 
nor  did  he  bring  any  of  his  old  cloves  back  with  him, 
though  he'd  often  said,  '  Barbara,'  says  he  to  me,  '  when 
]Mr.  Frasier  pays  me  my  money,  and  I  git  new  ones,  you 
shall  have  these  as  your  requisites : '  that  was  his  very 
words,  thof  I  must  confess  I  don't  understand  the  same. 

"He'd  had  dinner  and  coughy  before  he  went;  and 
we  all  cumjectured  that  he'd  been  somewhere  particklar, 
for  I  heer'd  him  barging  with  a  cabman  from  Hollywell 
Street,  of  which  he  said  the  fair  was  only  hatepence ;  but 
being  ableeged  to  pay  a  shilling,  he  cust  and  swoar  horry- 
bill. 

"  He  came  in,  ordered  some  supper,  laft  and  joakt 
with  the  gents  in  the  parlor,  and  shewed  them  a  deal  of 
money,  which  some  of  the  gentlemen  was  so  good  as  to 
purpose  to  borry  of  him. 

"  They  talked  about  literary ture  and  the  fine  harts 


438  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

(which  is  both  much  used  by  our  gentlemen)  ;  and  Mr. 
JNIike  was  very  merry.  Specially  he  sung  them  a  song, 
which  he  ancored  hisself  for  twenty  minutes ;  and  ordered 
a  bole  of  our  punch,  which  is  chocked  against  his  skor  to 
this  very  day. 

"  About  twelve  o'clock  he  went  to  bed,  very  comforta- 
ble and  quiet,  only  he  cooldnt  stand  on  his  legs  very  well, 
and  cooldnt  speak  much,  excep, '  Frasier  for  ever ! '  '  All 
of  a  York!'  and  some  such  nonsense,  which  neither  me 
nor  George  nor  ]Mrs.  Stoaks  could  understand. 

What's  the  matter? '  says  Mrs.  Stokes.  '  Barbara,' 
says  she  to  me,  '  has  he  taken  any  thin  ? '  says  she. 

Law  bless  you,  mum! '  says  I  (I  always  says.  Law 
bless  you ) ,  '  as  I  am  a  Christen  woman,  and  hope  to  be 
married,  he's  had  nothin  out  of  common.' 

What  had  he  for  dinner? '  says  she,  as  if  she  didn't 
know. 

There  was  biled  salmon,'  says  I,  '  and  a  half-crow^n 
lobster  in  soss  (bless  us  if  he  left  so  much  as  a  clor  or  tis- 
spunful),  boil  pork  and  peace  puddn,  and  a  secknd 
course  of  beef  steak  and  onions,  cole  plumpuddn,  mac- 
carony,  and  afterwards  cheese  and  sallat.' 

" '  I  don't  mean  that,'  says  she.  '  What  was  his 
liquors,  or  bavyrage?' 

Two  Guineas's  stouts;  old  madeira,  one  pint;  port, 
half  a  ditto;  four  tumlers  of  niggus;  and  three  cole 
brandy  and  water,  and  sigars.' 

He  is  a  good  fellow,'  says  Mrs.  Stokes, '  and  spends 
his  money  freely,  that  I  declare.' 

" '  I  wish  he'd  ony  pay  it,'  says  I  to  Mrs.  Stokes,  says 
I.  '  He's  lived  in  our  house  any  time  these  fourteen 
j^ears  and  never — ' 

'"Hush  your  imperence!'  says  Mrs.  Stokes;  'he's  a 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  439 

gentleman,  and  pays  when  he  pleases.  He's  not  one  of 
your  common  sort.     Did  he  have  any  tea  ? ' 

"  '  No,'  says  I,  '  not  a  drop ;  ony  coughy  and  muff  ns. 
I  told  you  so— three  on  'em;  and  growled  preciously, 
too,  because  there  was  no  more.  But  I  wasn't  a  going 
to  fetch  him  any  more,  he  whose  money  we'd  never—' 

"'Barbara,'  says  Mrs.  Stokes,  'leave  the  room— do. 
You're  always  a  suspecting  every  gentleman.  Well, 
what  did  he  have  at  supper? ' 

"'You  know,'  says  I,  'pickled  salmon— that  chap's  a 
reglar  devil  at  salmon  (those  were  my  very  words)  — 
cold  pork,  and  cold  peace  puddn  agin;  toasted  chease 
this  time;  and  such  a  lot  of  hale  and  rum-punch  as  I 
never  saw— nine  glasses  of  beach,  I  do  believe,  as  I  am 
an  honest  woman.' 

" '  Barbara,'  says  mistress,  '  that's  not  the  question. 
Did  he  mix  his  liquors,  Barbara?     That's  the  pint.' 

"'No,'  says  I,  '  ^Irs.  Stokes;  that  indeed  he  didn't.' 
And  so  we  agread  that  he  couldnt  posbly  be  affected  by 
drink,  and  that  something  wunderfle  must  have  hapned 
to  him,  to  send  him  to  bed  so  quear  like. 

"Nex  morning  I  took  him  his  tea  in  bed  (on  the  4th 
flore  back.  No.  104  was  his  number)  ;  and  says  he  to  me, 
'  Barbara,'  says  he,  '  you  find  me  in  sperrits.' 

"'Find  you  in  sperrits!  I  believe  we  do,'  says  I; 
'  we've  found  you  in  'em  these  fifteen  year.  I  wish  you'd 
find  us  in  money'  says  I ;  and  laf  t,  too,  for  I  thought  it 
was  a  good  un. 

"'Pooh!'  says  he,  'my  dear,  that's  not  what  I  mean. 
You  find  me  in  spirits  bycause  my  exlent  publisher,  Mr. 
Frasier,  of  Regent  Street,  paid  me  handsum  for  a  re- 
markable harticle  I  wrote  in  his  ^lagazine.  He  gives 
twice  as  much  as  the  other  publishers,'  says  he ;  '  though, 


440  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

if  he  didn't,  I'd  write  for  him  just  the  same— ray ther 
more,  I'm  so  fond  of  him.' 

"'How  much  has  he  gave  you?'  says  I;  'because  I 
hope  you'll  pay  us.' 

Oh,'  says  he,  after  a  bit,  '  a  lot  of  money.  Here, 
you,  you  darling,'  says  he  (he  did;  upon  my  word,  he 
did) , '  go  and  git  me  change  for  a  five-pound  note.' 

"  And  when  he  got  up  and  had  his  brekfast,  and  been 
out,  he  changed  another  five-pound  note;  and  after 
lunch,  another  five-pound  note ;  and  when  he  came  in  to 
dine,  another  five-pound  note,  to  pay  the  cabman.  Well, 
thought  we,  he's  made  of  money,  and  so  he  seemed :  but 
you  shall  hear  soon  how  it  was  that  he  had  all  them  notes 
to  change. 

"After  dinner  he  was  a  sitten  over  his  punch,  when 
some  of  our  gents  came  in:  and  he  began  to  talk  and 
brag  to  them  about  his  harticle,  and  what  he  had  for  it; 
and  that  he  was  the  best  cricket  ^  in  Europe ;  and  how 
Mr.  Murray  had  begged  to  be  intro juiced  to  him,  and 
was  so  pleased  with  him,  and  he  with  Murray ;  and  how 
he'd  been  asked  to  write  in  the  Quartly  Review,  and  in 
bless  us  knows  what;  and  how,  in  fact,  he  was  going  to 
carry  all  London  by  storm. 

Have  you  seen  what  the  Morning  Poast  says  of 
you?'  says  Frank  Flint,  one  of  them  hartist  chaps  as 
comes  to  our  house. 

No,'  says  he,  '  I  aint.  Barbara,  bring  some  more 
punch,  do  you  hear?  No,  I  aint;  but  that's  a  fashnable 
paper,'  says  he,  '  and  always  takes  notice  of  a  fashnable 
chap  like  me.     What  does  it  say? '  says  he. 

"  Mr.  Flint  opened  his  mouth  and  grinned  very  wide; 
and  taking  the  Morning  Poast  out  of  liis  pocket  (he  was 

'  Critic,  Mrs.   Bcarbara  means,  an  absurd  monomania  of  Mr.  Titmarsh. 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  441 

a  great  friend  of  jMr.  Titmarsh's,  and,  like  a  good-naterd 
friend  as  he  was,  had  always  a  kind  thing  to  say  or  do) 
—Frank  pulls  out  a  Morning  Poast,  I  say  (which  had 
cost  Frank  Phippens^)  :  'Here  it  is,'  says  he;  'read  for 
yourself;  it  will  make  you  quite  happy.'  And  so  he  be- 
gan to  grin  to  all  the  gents  like  winkin. 

"  When  he  red  it,  Titmarsh's  jor  dropt  all  of  a  sudn: 
he  turned  pupple,  and  bloo,  and  violate;  and  then,  with 
a  mighty  efFut,  he  swigg  off  his  rum  and  water,  and 
staggered  out  of  the  room. 

"  He  looked  so  ill  when  he  went  up  stairs  to  bed,  that 
Mrs.  Stokes  insisted  upon  making  him  some  grool  for 
him  to  have  warm  in  bed ;  but,  Lor  bless  you !  he  threw 
it  in  my  face  when  I  went  up,  and  rord  and  swor  so  dred- 
fle,  that  I  rann  down  stairs  quite  frightened. 

"Nex  morning  I  knockt  at  his  dor  at  nine — no  anser. 

"  At  ten,  tried  agin — never  a  word. 

"  At  eleven,  twelve,  one,  two,  up  we  went,  with  a  fresh 
cup  of  hot  tea  every  time.  His  dor  was  lockt,  and  not 
one  sillibaly  could  we  git. 

"At  for  we  began  to  think  he'd  suasided  hisself ;  and 
having  called  in  the  policemen,  bust  open  the  dor. 

"  And  then  we  beheld  a  pretty  spactycle !  Fancy  him 
in  his  gor,  his  throat  cut  from  hear  to  hear,  his  white 
night-gownd  all  over  blood,  his  beautiful  face  all  pail 
with  hagny! — well,  no  such  thing.  Fancy  him  hanging 
from  the  bedpost  by  one  of  his  pore  dear  garters! — well, 
no  such  thing.  Agin,  fancy  him  flung  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  dasht  into  ten  billium  peaces  on  the  minionet- 
potts  in  the  fust  floar;  or  else  a  naked,  melumcolly 
corpse,  laying  on  the  hairy  spikes!— not  in  the  least.  He 
wasn't  dead,  nor  he  wasn't  the  least  unwell,  nor  he  wasn't 

^  Fivepence,  Mrs.  Barbara  means. 


442  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

asleep  neither— he  only  wasn't  there;  and  from  that  day 
we  have  heard  nothen  about  him.  He  left  on  his  table 
the  following;  note  as  follows; — 


1st  June,  1840.  Midnight. 
Mrs.  Stokes, — I  am  attached  to  you  by  the  most  disin- 
terested friendship.  I  have  patronised  your  house  for  fourteen 
years,  and  it  was  my  intention  to  have  paid  you  a  part  of  your 
bill,  but  the  Morning  Post  newspaper  has  destroyed  that  blessed 
hope  for  ever. 

"  '  Before  you  receive  this  I  shall  be — ask  not  where;  my  mind 
shudders  to  think  where !  You  will  carry  the  papers  directed  to 
Regent  Street  to  that  address,  and  perhaps  you  wdll  receive  in 
return  a  handsome  sum  of  money ;  but  if  the  bud  of  my  youth  is 
blighted,  the  promise  of  a  long  and  happy  career  suddenly  and 
cruelly  cut  short,  an  affectionate  family  deprived  of  its  support 
and  ornament,  say  that  the  Morning  Post  has  done  this  by  its 
savage  criticisms  upon  me,  the  last  this  day. 

" '  Farewell.' 

"  This  is  hall  he  said.  From  that  day  to  this  we  have 
never  seen  the  poor  fellow — we  have  never  heerd  of  him 
— we  have  never  known  any  think  about  him.  Being 
halarmed,  Mrs.  Stoks  hadvertized  him  in  the  papers ;  but 
not  wishing  to  vex  his  family,  we  called  him  by  another 
name,  and  put  hour  address  difFrent  too.  Hall  was  of 
no  use;  and  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  pang  I  felt  in  my 
busum  when,  on  going  to  get  change  for  the  five-pound 
notes  he'd  given  me  at  the  public-house  in  Hoxford 
Street,  the  lan'lord  laft  when  he  saw  them;  and  said, 
says  he,  '  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Barbara,  that  a  queer  gent 
came  in  here  with  five  sovrings  one  day,  has  a  glass  of 
hale,  and  haskes  me  to  change  his  sovrings  for  a  note? 
which  I  did.  Then  in  about  two  hours  he  came  back 
with  five  more  sovrings,  gets  another  note  and  another 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  413 

glass  of  hale,  and  so  goes  on  four  times  in  one  blessed 
day!  It's  my  beleaf  that  he  had  only  five  pound,  and 
wanted  you  to  suppose  that  he  was  worth  twenty,  for 
you've  got  all  his  notes,  I  see ! ' 

"  And  so  the  poor  fellow  had  no  money  with  him  after 
all!  I  do  pity  him,  I  do,  from  my  hart;  and  I  do  hate 
that  wicked  Morning  Post  for  so  treating  such  a  kind, 
sweet,  good-nater'd  gentleman ! 

(Signed)     "Barbara. 
"  Mokland's  Hotel:  15  Jewin,  1840." 

This  is  conclusive.  Our  departed  friend  had  many 
faults,  but  he  is  gone,  and  we  will  not  discuss  them  now. 
It  appears  that,  on  the  1st  of  June,  the  Morning  Post 
published  a  criticism  upon  him,  accusing  him  of  ignor- 
ance, bad  taste,  and  gross  partiality.  His  gentle  and 
susceptible  spirit  could  not  brook  the  rebuke ;  he  was  not 
angry;  he  did  not  retort;  but  his  heart  broke! 

Peace  to  his  ashes !     A  couple  of  volumes  of  his  works, 

we  see  by  our  advertisements,  are  about  immediately  to 
appear. 

(Fraser's  Magazine,  June  and  July  1840.) 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES 

A    PROPOS    OF   A   WALK    IN    THE   LOUVRE. 

Paris:  June  1841. 

IN  the  days  of  my  youth  I  knew  a  young  fellow  that  I 
shall  here  call  Tidbody,  and  who,  born  in  a  provincial 
town  of  respectable  parents,  had  been  considered  by  the 
drawing-master  of  the  place,  and,  indeed,  by  the  princi- 
pal tea-parties  there,  as  a  great  genius  in  the  painting 
line,  and  one  that  was  sure  to  make  his  fortune. 

When  he  had  made  portraits  of  his  grandmother,  of 
the  house-dog,  of  the  door-knocker,  of  the  church  and 
parson  of  the  place,  and  had  copied,  tant  hien  que  mal, 
most  of  the  prints  that  were  to  be  found  in  the  various 
houses  of  the  village,  Harry  Tidbody  was  voted  to  be 
very  nearly  perfect ;  and  his  honest  parents  laid  out  their 
little  savings  in  sending  the  lad  to  Rome  and  Paris. 

I  saw  him  in  the  latter  town  in  the  year  '32,  before  an 
immense  easel,  perched  upon  a  high  stool,  and  copying 
with  perfect  complacency  a  Correggio  in  the  galleiy, 
which  he  thought  he  had  imitated  to  a  nicety.  No  mis- 
givings ever  entered  into  the  man's  mind  that  he  was 
making  an  ass  of  himself ;  he  never  once  paused  to  con- 
sider that  his  copy  was  as  much  like  the  Correggio  as  my 
nose  is  like  the  Apollo's.  But  he  rose  early  of  mornings, 
and  scrubbed  away  all  day  with  his  megilps  and  var- 
nishes; he  worked  away  through  cold  and  through  sun- 
shine; when  other  men  were  warming  their  fingers  at 
the  stoves,  or  wisely  lounging  on   the  Boulevard,  he 

44t 


ox  MEN  AND  PICTURES  445 

worked  away,  and  thought  he  was  cultivating  art  in  the 
purest  fashion,  and  smiled  with  easy  scorn  upon  those 
who  took  the  world  more  easily  than  he.  Tidbody  drank 
water  with  his  meals — if  meals  those  miserable  scraps  of 
bread  and  cheese,  or  bread  and  sausage,  could  be  called 
Avhich  he  lined  his  lean  stomach  with;  and  voted  those 
persons  godless  gluttons  who  recreated  themselves  with 
brandy  and  beef.  He  rose  up  at  daybreak,  and  worked 
away  with  bladder  and  brush ;  he  passed  all  night  at  life- 
academies,  designing  life-guardsmen  with  chalk  and 
stump;  he  never  was  known  to  take  any  other  recrea- 
tion ;  and  in  ten  years  he  had  spent  as  much  time  over  his 
drawing  as  another  man  spends  in  thirty.  At  the  end  of 
his  second  year  of  academical  studies  Harry  Tidbody 
could  draw  exactly  as  wtII  as  he  could  eight  years  after. 
He  had  visited  Florence,  and  Rome,  and  Venice,  in  the 
interval;  but  there  he  was  as  he  had  begun,  without  one 
single  farther  idea,  and  not  an  inch  nearer  the  goal  at 
which  he  aimed. 

One  day,  at  the  Life-academy  in  Saint  Martin's  Lane, 
I  saw  before  me  the  back  of  a  shock  head  of  hair  and  a 
pair  of  ragged  elbows,  belonging  to  a  man  in  a  certain 
pompous  attitude  w^hich  I  thought  I  recognised;  and 
when  the  model  retired  behind  the  curtain  to  take  his  ten 
minutes'  repose,  the  man  belonging  to  the  back  in  ques- 
tion turned  round  a  little,  and  took  out  an  old  snufFv 
cotton  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  forehead  and  lank 
cheekbones,  that  were  moist  with  the  vast  mental  and 
bodily  exertions  of  the  night.  Harry  Tidbody  was  the 
man  in  question.  In  ten  years  he  had  spent  at  least 
three  thousand  nights  in  copying  the  model.  When 
abroad,  perhaps,  he  had  passed  the  Sunday  evenings  too 
in  the  same  rigorous  and  dismal  pastime.     He  had  piles 


44G  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

upon  piles  of  grey  paper  at  bis  lodgings,  covered  with 
worthless  nudities  in  black  and  white  chalk. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening  we  shook  bands,  and  I  asked 
him  how  the  arts  flourished.  The  poor  fellow,  with  a 
kind  of  dismal  humour  that  formed  a  part  of  his  charac- 
ter, twirled  round  upon  the  iron  heels  of  his  old  patched 
Blucher  boots,  and  showed  me  his  figure  for  answer. 
Such  a  lean,  long,  ragged,  fantastical-looking  personage, 
it  would  be  hard  to  match  out  of  the  drawing-schools. 

"  Tit,  my  boy,"  said  he  when  be  had  finished  his  pirou- 
ette, "  you  may  see  that  the  arts  have  not  fattened  me  as 
yet;  and,  between  ourselves,  I  make  by  my  profession 
something  considerably  less  than  a  thousand  a  year. 
But,  mind  j^ou,  I  am  not  discouraged ;  my  whole  soul  is 
in  my  calling ;  I  can't  do  anything  else  if  I  would ;  and 
I  will  be  a  painter,  or  die  in  the  attempt." 

Tidbody  is  not  dead,  I  am  happy  to  say,  but  has  a 
snug  place  in  the  Excise  of  eighty  pounds  a  year,  and 
now  only  exercises  the  pencil  as  an  amateur.  If  his 
story  has  been  told  here  at  some  length,  the  ingenious 
reader  may  fancj^  that  there  is  some  reason  for  it.  In 
the  first  place,  there  is  so  little  to  say  about  the  present 
exhibition  at  Paris,  that  your  humble  servant  does  not 
know  how  to  fill  his  pages  without  some  digressions ;  and, 
secondly,  the  Tidbodian  episode  has  a  certain  moral  in  it, 
without  which  it  never  would  have  been  related,  and 
which  is  good  for  all  artists  to  read. 

It  came  to  my  mind  upon  examining  a  picture  of 
sixty  feet  by  forty  (indeed,  it  cannot  be  much  smaller), 
which  takes  up  a  good  deal  of  space  in  the  large  room 
of  the  Louvre.  But  of  this  picture  anon.  Let  us  come 
to  the  general  considerations. 

Why  the  deuce  will  men  make  light  of  that  golden 
gift  of  mediocrity  which  for  the  most  part  they  possess, 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  447 

and  strive  so  absurdly  at  the  sublime?  What  is  it  that 
makes  a  fortune  in  this  world  but  energetic  mediocrity? 
What  is  it  that  is  so  respected  and  prosperous  as  good, 
honest,  emphatic,  blundering  dulness,  bellowing  com- 
monplaces with  its  great  healthy  lungs,  kicking  and 
struggling  with  its  big  feet  and  fists,  and  bringing  an 
awe-stricken  public  down  on  its  knees  before  it?  Think, 
my  good  sir,  of  the  people  who  occupy  your  attention 
and  the  world's.  Who  are  they?  Upon  your  honour 
and  conscience  now,  are  they  not  persons  with  thews 
and  sinews  like  vour  own,  only  they  use  them  with  some- 
what  more  activity— with  a  voice  like  yours,  only  they 
shout  a  little  louder— with  the  average  portion  of  brains, 
in  fact,  but  working  them  more?  But  this  kind  of  disbe- 
lief in  heroes  is  very  offensive  to  the  world,  it  must  be 
confessed.  There,  now,  is  the  Times  newspaper,  which 
the  other  day  rated  your  humble  servant  for  publishing 
an  account  of  one  of  the  great  humbugs  of  modern  days, 
viz.  the  late  funeral  of  Napoleon— which  rated  me,  I 
say,  and  talked  in  its.  own  grave  roaring  way  about  the 
flippancy  and  conceit  of  Titmarsh. 

O  3'ou  thundering  old  Times!  Napoleon's  funeral 
was  a  humbug,  and  your  constant  reader  said  so.  The 
people  engaged  in  it  were  humbugs,  and  this  your 
Michael  Angelo  hinted  at.  There  may  be  irreverence  in 
this,  and  the  process  of  humbug-hunting  may  end  rather 
awkwardly  for  some  people.  But,  surely,  there  is  no 
conceit.  The  shamming  of  modesty  is  the  most  pert  con- 
ceit of  all,  the  precieuse  affectation  of  deference  where 
you  don't  feel  it,  the  sneaking  acquiescence  in  lies.  It  is 
very  hard  that  a  man  may  not  tell  the  truth  as  he  fancies 
it,  without  being  accused  of  conceit:  but  so  the  world 
wags.  As  has  already  been  prettily  shown  in  that  be- 
fore-mentioned little  book  about  Napoleon  (that  is  still 


448  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

to  be  had  of  the  pubhshers) ,  there  is  a  ballad  in  the  vol- 
ume, which,  if  properly  studied,  will  be  alone  worth  two- 
and-sixpence  to  any  man. 

Well,  the  funeral  of  Napoleon  was  a  humbug;  and, 
being  so,  what  was  a  man  to  call  it?  What  do  we  call  a 
rose?  Is  it  disrespectful  to  the  pretty  flower  to  call  it  by 
its  own  innocent  name?  And,  in  like  manner,  are  we 
bound,  out  of  respect  for  society,  to  speak  of  humbug 
only  in  a  circumlocutory  way — to  call  it  something  else, 
as  they  say  some  Indian  people  do  their  devil— to  wrap 
it  up  in  riddles  and  charades?  Nothing  is  easier.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  following  couple  of  sonnets  on  the  sub- 
ject:— 

The  glad  spring  sun  shone  yesterday,  as  Mr. 
M.  Titmarsh  wandered  with  his  favourite  lassie 
By  silver  Seine,  among  the  meadows  grassy — 
Meadows,  like  mail-coach  guards  new  clad  at  Easter. 

Fair  was  the  sight  'twixt  Neuilly  and  Passy ; 
And  green  the  field,  and  bright  the  river's  glister. 

The  birds  sang  salutations  to  the  spring ; 

Already  buds  and  leaves  from  branches  burst : 
"  The  surly  winter  time  hath  done  its  worst," 
Said  Michael ;  "  Lo,  the  bees  are  on  the  wing ! " 
Then  on  the  ground  his  lazy  limbs  did  fling. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  pass'd  by  him  with  my  first. 
My  second  dare  I  to  your  notice  bring, 

Or  name  to  delicate  ears  that  animal  accurst.'* 


To  all  our  earthly  family  of  fools 

My  whole,  resistless  despot,  gives  the  law — 
Humble  and  great,  we  kneel  to  it  with  awe ; 
O'er  camp  and  court,  the  senate  and  the  schools, 
Our  grand  invisible  Lama  sits  and  rules. 
By  ministers  that  are  its  men  of  straw. 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  449 

Sir  Robert  utters  it  in  place  of  wit, 

And  straight  the  Opposition  shouts  "  Hear,  hear ! " 

And,  oh !  but  all  the  Whiggish  benches  cheer 
When  great  Lord  John  retorts  it,  as  is  fit. 

Iji  you,  my  Press,^  each  da}'  throughout  the  year, 
On  vast  broad  sheets  we  find  its  praises  writ. 

O  wondrous  are  the  columns  that  you  rear. 
And  sweet  the  morning  h3'mns  you  roar  in  praise  of  it ! 

Sacred  word!  it  is  kept  out  of  the  dictionaries,  as  if  the 
great  compilers  of  those  publications  were  afraid  to  utter 
it.  Well,  then,  the  funeral  of  Napoleon  was  a  humbug, 
as  Titmarsh  wrote ;  and  a  still  better  proof  that  it  was  a 
humbug  was  this,  that  nobody  bought  Titmarsh's  book, 
and  of  the  10,000  coj^ies  made  ready  by  the  publisher  not 
above  3,000  went  off.  It  was  a  humbug,  and  an  ex- 
ploded humbug.  Peace  be  to  it!  Parlous  d'autres 
choses;  and  let  us  begin  to  discourse  about  the  pictures 
without  further  shillv-shallv. 

«■'  »/ 

I  must  confess,  with  a  great  deal  of  shame,  that  I  love 
to  go  to  the  picture  gallery  of  a  Sunday  after  church, 
on  purpose  to  see  the  thousand  happy  people  of  the 
working  sort  amusing  themselves — not  very  wickedly,  as 
I  fancy — on  the  only  day  in  the  week  on  which  they  have 
their  freedom.  Genteel  people,  who  can  amuse  them- 
selves every  day  throughout  the  year,  do  not  frequent 

'  The  reader  can  easily  accommodate  this  line  to  the  name  of  his  favourite 
paper.    Thus:— 


Or, 


\  Times,  f 
In  you,  my  <  V  each  day  throughout  the  year.'' 

/  J.  OS  I J         \ 

(  Herald,  ) 
'  In  you,  my  <:  V  daily  through  the  year." 

I  'Tiser,    \ 


Or,  in  France: — 

"  In  you,  my  Galignani's  Messengere;  " 

a  capital  paper,  because  you  have  there  the  very  cream  of  all  the  others.  In 
the  last  line,  for  "  morning  "  you  can  read  "  evening,"  or  "  weelily,"  as  cir- 
cumstances prompt. 


450  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

the  Louvre  on  a  Sunday.  You  can't  see  the  pictures 
well,  and  are  pushed  and  elbowed  by  all  sorts  of  low-bred 
creatures.  Yesterday  there  were  at  the  very  least  two 
hundred  common  soldiers  in  the  place — little  vulgar  ruf- 
fians, with  red  breeches  and  three-halfpence  a  day,  ex- 
amining the  pictures  in  company  with  fifteen  hundred 
grisettes,  two  thousand  liberated  shop-boys,  eighteen 
hundred  and  forty-one  artist-apprentices,  half-a-dozen 
of  livery  servants,  and  many  scores  of  fellows  with  caps, 
and  jackets,  and  copper-coloured  countenances,  and 
gold  earrings,  and  large  ugly  hands,  that  are  hammer- 
ing, or  weaving,  or  filing,  all  the  week.  Fi  done!  what  a 
thing  it  is  to  have  a  taste  for  low  company!  Every  man 
of  decent  breeding  ought  to  have  been  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  in  white  kid  gloves  and  on  horseback,  or  on 
hackback  at  least.  How  the  dandies  just  now  went 
prancing  and  curvetting  down  the  Champs  Elysees, 
making  their  horses  jump  as  they  passed  the  carriages, 
with  their  japanned  boots  glittering  in  the  sunshine! 

The  fountains  were  flashing  and  foaming,  as  if  they 
too  were  in  their  best  for  Sunday;  the  trees  are  covered 
all  over  with  little  twinkling  bright  green  sprouts ;  num- 
berless exhibitions  of  Punch  and  the  Fantoccini  are  go- 
ing on  beneath  them;  and  jugglers  and  balancers  are  en- 
tertaining the  people  with  their  pranks.  I  met  two 
fellows  the  other  day,  one  M^ith  a  barrel-organ,  and  the 
other  with  a  beard,  a  turban,  a  red  jacket,  and  a  pair 
of  dirty,  short,  spangled,  white  trousers,  who  were  curs- 
ing each  other  in  the  purest  Saint  Giles's  English;  and  if 
I  had  had  impudence  or  generosity  enough,  I  should 
have  liked  to  make  up  their  quarrel  over  a  chopine  of 
Strasburg  beer,  and  hear  the  histories  of  either.  Think 
of  these  fellows  quitting  our  beloved  country,  and  their 


ox  MEN  AND  PICTURES  451 

homes  in  some  calm  nook  of  Field  Lane  or  Seven  Dials, 
and  toiling  over  to  France  with  their  music  and  their 
juggling-traps,  to  balance  cart-wheels  and  swallow 
knives  for  the  amusement  of  our  natural  enemies !  They 
are  very  likely  at  work  at  this  minute,  with  grinning 
bonnes  and  conscripts  staring  at  their  skill.  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  walk  by  and  see  the  nurses  and  the  children  so  up- 
roariously happy.  Yonder  is  one  who  has  got  a  half- 
penny to  give  to  the  beggar  at  the  crossing;  several  are 
riding  gravely  in  little  carriages  drawn -by  goats.  Ah, 
truly,  the  sunshine  is  a  fine  thing ;  and  one  loves  to  see  the 
little  people  and  the  poor  basking  in  it,  as  well  as  the 
great  in  their  fine  carriages,  or  their  prancing  cock-tailed 
horses. 

In  the  midst  of  sights  of  this  kind,  you  pass  on  a  fine 
Sunday  afternoon  down  the  Elj^sian  Fields  and  the 
Tuileries,  until  vou  reach  the  before-mentioned  low-bred 
crowd  rushing  into  the  I^ouvre. 

Well,  then,  the  pictures  of  this  exhibition  are  to  be 
numbered  by  thousands,  and  these  thousands  contain 
the  ordinary  number  of  chefs-d'oeuvre;  that  is  to  say, 
there  may  be  a  couple  of  works  of  genius,  half-a-dozen 
very  clever  performances,  a  hundred  or  so  of  good  ones, 
fifteen  hundred  very  decent,  good,  or  bad  pictures,  and 
the  remainder  atrocious.  What  a  comfort  it  is,  as  I  have 
often  thought,  that  they  are  not  all  masterpieces,  and 
that  there  is  a  good  stock  of  mediocrity  in  this  world, 
and  that  w^e  only  light  upon  genius  now  and  then,  at  rare 
angel  intervals,  handed  round  like  tokay  at  dessert,  in  a 
few  houses,  and  in  very  small  quantities  only!  Fancy 
how  sick  one  would  grow  of  it,  if  one  had  no  other  drink. 

Now,  in  this  exhibition  there  are,  of  course,  a  certain 
number  of  persons  who  make  believe  that  they  are  hand- 


452  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

ing  you  round  tokay— giving  you  the  real  imperial  stuff, 
with  the  seal  of  genius  stamped  on  the  cork.  There  are 
numbers  of  ambitious  pictures,  in  other  words,  chiefly 
ui^on  sacred  subjects,  and  in  what  is  called  a  severe  style 
of  art. 

The  severe  style  of  art  consists  in  drawing  your 
figures  in  the  first  place  very  big  and  very  neat,  in  which 
there  is  no  harm;  and  in  dressing  them  chiefly  in  stiff, 
crisp,  old-fashioned  draperies,  such  as  one  sees  in  the 
illuminated  missals  and  the  old  masters.  The  old  mas- 
ters, no  doubt,  copied  the  habits  of  the  people  about 
them ;  and  it  has  always  appeared  as  absurd  to  me  to  imi- 
tate these  antique  costumes,  and  to  dress  up  saints  and 
virgins  after  the  fashion  of  the  fifteenth  century,  as  it 
would  be  to  adorn  them  with  hoops  and  red  heels  such  as 
our  grandmothers  wore;  and  to  make  a  Magdalen,  for 
instance,  taking  off  her  patches,  or  an  angel  in  powder 
and  a  hoop. 

It  is,  or  used  to  be,  the  custom  at  the  theatres  for  the 
gravedigger  in  "  Hamlet "  always  to  wear  fifteen  or  six- 
teen waistcoats,  of  which  he  leisurely  divested  himself, 
the  audience  roaring  at  each  change  of  raiment.  Do  the 
Denmark  gravediggers  always  wear  fifteen  waistcoats? 
Let  anybody  answer  who  has  visited  the  country.  But 
the  probability  is  that  the  custom  on  the  stage  is  a  very 
ancient  one,  and  that  the  public  would  not  be  satisfied  at 
a  departure  from  the  legend.  As  in  the  matter  of  grave- 
diggers,  so  it  is  with  angels:  they  have — and  Heaven 
knows  why — a  regular  costume,  which  every  "serious" 
painter  follows;  and  which  has  a  great  deal  more  to  do 
with  serious  art  than  people  at  first  may  imagine.  They 
have  large  white  wings,  that  fill  up  a  quarter  of  the  pic- 
ture in  which  they  have  the  good  fortune  to  be ;  they  have 


ox  MEN  AND  PICTURES  453 

white  gowns  that  fall  round  their  feet  in  pretty  fantas- 
tical draperies;  they  have  fillets  round  their  brows,  and 
their  hair  combed  and  neatly  pomatumed  down  the  mid- 
dle ;  and  if  they  have  not  a  sword,  have  an  elegant  port- 
able harp  of  a  certain  angelic  shape.  Large  rims  of 
gold  leaf  they  have  round  their  heads  always, — a  pretty 
business  it  would  be  if  such  adjuncts  were  to  be  left  out. 

Now,  suppose  the  legend  ordered  that  every  gravedig- 
ger  should  be  represented  with  a  gold-leaf  halo  round  his 
head,  and  every  angel  with  fifteen  waistcoats,  artists 
would  have  follo^^'ed  serious  art  just  as  they  do  now  most 
probably,  and  looked  with  scorn  at  the  miserable  creature 
who  ventured  to  scoff  at  the  waistcoats.  Ten  to  one  but 
a  certain  newspaper  would  have  called  a  man  flippant 
who  did  not  respect  the  waistcoats — would  have  said  that 
he  was  irreverent  for  not  worshipping  the  waistcoats.^ 
But  why  talk  of  it?  The  fact  is  I  have  rather  a  desire 
to  set  up  for  a  martyr,  like  my  neighbours  in  the  literary 
trade :  it  is  not  a  little  comforting  to  undergo  such  perse- 
cutions courageously.  "O  Socrate!  je  boirai  la  cigue 
avec  toi! "  as  David  said  to  Robespierre.  You  too  were 
accused  of  blasphemy  in  your  time;  and  the  world  has 
been  treating  us  poor  literary  gents  in  the  same  way  ever 
since.    There,  now,  is  Bulw — 

But  to  return  to  the  painters.  In  the  matter  of  canvas 
covering  the  French  artists  are  a  great  deal  more  auda- 
cious than  ours;  and  I  have  known  a  man  starve  all  the 
winter  through,  without  fire  and  without  beef,  in  order 
that  he  might  have  the  honour  of  filling  five-and-twenty 
feet  square  of  canvas  with  some  favourite  subject  of  his. 

^  Last  year,  when  our  friend  published  some  article  in  this  Magazine,  he 
seemed  to  be  agitated  almost  to  madness  by  a  criticism,  and  a  very  just  one 
too,  which  appeared  in  the  Morninci  Post.  At  present  he  is  similarly  af- 
fected by  some  strictures  on  a  defunct  work  of  his.— O.  Y. 


454  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

It  is  curious  to  look  through  the  collection,  and  see 
how  for  the  most  part  the  men  draw  their  ideas.  There 
are  caricatures  of  the  late  and  early  style  of  Raphael; 
there  are  caricatures  of  Masaccio;  there  is  a  picture 
painted  in  the  very  pyramidical  form,  and  in  the  manner 
of  Andrea  del  Sarto;  there  is  a  Holy  Family,  the  exact 
counterpart  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  and,  finally,  there  is 
Achille  Deveria — it  is  no  use  to  give  the  names  and  num- 
bers of  the  other  artists,  who  are  not  known  in  England 
—there  is  Achille  Deveria,  who,  having  nothing  else  to 
caricature,  has  caricatured  a  painted  window,  and  de- 
signed a  Charity,  of  which  all  the  outlines  are  half-an- 
inch  thick. 

Then  there  are  numberless  caricatures  in  colour  as  in 
form.  There  is  a  violet  Entombment — a  crimson  one,  a 
green  one;  a  light  emerald  and  gamboge  Eve;  all  huge 
pictures,  with  talent  enough  in  their  composition,  but 
remarkable  for  this  strange  mad  love  of  extravagance, 
which  belongs  to  the  nation.  Titian  and  the  Venetians 
have  loved  to  paint  lurid  skies  and  sunsets  of  purple  and 
gold:  here,  in  consequence,  is  a  piebald  picture  of  crim- 
son and  yellow,  laid  on  in  streaks  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom. 

Who  has  not  heard  a  great,  comfortable,  big-chested 
man,  with  bands  round  a  sleek  double  chin,  and  fat  white 
cushion-squeezers  of  hands,  and  large  red  whiskers,  and 
a  soft  roaring  voice,  the  delight  of  a  congregation, 
preaching  for  an  hour  with  all  the  appearance  and  twice 
the  emphasis  of  piety,  and  leading  audiences  captive? 
And  who  has  not  seen  a  humble  individual,  who  is  quite 
confused  to  be  conducted  down  the  aisle  by  the  big 
beadle  with  his  silver  staff  (the  stalwart  "drum-major 
ecclesiastic") ;  and  when  in  his  pulpit,  saying  his  say  in 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  455 

the  simplest  manner  possible,  uttering  what  are  very 
likely  commonplaces,  without  a  single  rhetorical  grace 
or  emphasis  ? 

The  great,  comfortable,  red-whiskered,  roaring  cush- 
ion-thumj^er  is  most  probably  the  favourite  with  the 
public.  But  there  are  some  persons  who,  nevertheless, 
prefer  to  listen  to  the  man  of  timid  mild  commonplaces, 
because  the  simple  words  he  speaks  come  from  Jiis  heart, 
and  so  find  a  way  directly  to  yours;  where,  if  perhaps 
you  can't  find  belief  for  them,  you  still  are  sure  to  re- 
ceive them  with  respect  and  sympathy. 

There  are  man}^  such  professors  at  the  easel  as  well  as 
the  pulpit;  and  you  see  many  painters  with  a  great 
vigour  and  dexterity,  and  no  sincerity  of  heart;  some 
wdth  little  dexterity,  but  plenty  of  sincerity;  some  one 
or  two  in  a  million  who  have  both  these  qualities,  and 
thus  become  the  great  men  of  their  art.  I  think  there 
are  instances  of  the  two  former  kinds  in  this  present  ex- 
hibition of  the  Louvre.  There  are  fellows  who  have  cov- 
ered great  swaggering  canvases  with  all  the  attitudes 
and  externals  of  piety ;  and  some  few  whose  humble  pic- 
tures cause  no  stir,  and  remain  in  quiet  nooks,  where  one 
finds  them,  and  straightway  acknowledges  the  simple 
kindly  appeal  which  they  make. 

Of  such  an  order  is  the  picture  entitled  "  La  Priere," 
by  INlonsieur  Trimolet.  A  man  and  his  wife  are  kneeling 
at  an  old-fashioned  praying-desk,  and  the  woman  clasps 
a  little  sickly-looking  child  in  her  arms,  and  all  three  are 
praying  as  earnestly  as  their  simple  hearts  will  let  them. 
The  man  is  a  limner,  or  painter  of  missals,  by  trade,  as 
we  fancy.  One  of  his  works  lies  upon  the  praying-desk, 
and  it  is  evident  that  he  can  paint  no  more  that  daj^  for 
the  sun  is  just  set  behind  the  old-fashioned  roofs  of  the 


456  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

houses  in  the  narrow  street  of  the  old  city  where  he  Hves. 
Indeed,  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  looking  at 
this  little  quiet  painting,  and  in  the  course  of  half-a- 
dozen  visits  that  I  have  paid  to  it,  have  become  perfectly 
acquainted  with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  life  of  the 
honest  missal  illuminator  and  his  wife,  here  praying  at 
the  end  of  their  day's  work  in  the  calm  summer  evening. 

Very  likely  INIonsieur  Trimolet  has  quite  a  different 
history  for  his  little  personages,  and  so  has  everybody 
else  who  examines  the  picture.  But  what  of  that? 
There  is  the  privilege  of  pictures.  A  man  does  not  know 
all  that  lies  in  his  picture,  any  more  than  he  understands 
all  the  character  of  his  children.  Directly  one  or  the  other 
makes  its  aj^pearance  in  the  world,  it  has  its  own  private 
existence,  independent  of  the  progenitor.  And  in 
respect  of  works  of  art,  if  the  same  piece  inspire  one 
man  with  joy  that  fills  another  with  compassion,  what 
are  we  to  say  of  it,  but  that  it  has  sundry  properties  of 
its  own  which  its  author  even  does  not  understand  ?  The 
fact  is,  pictures  "  are  as  they  seem  to  all,"  as  Mr.  Alfred 
Tennyson  sings  in  the  first  volume  of  his  poems. 

Some  of  this  character  of  holiness  and  devotion  that  I 
fancy  I  see  in  Monsieur  Trimolet's  pictures  is  likewise 
observable  in  a  piece  by  Madame  Juillerat,  representing 
Saint  Elizabeth  of  Hungary  leading  a  little  beggar-boy 
into  her  house,  where  the  holy  dame  of  Hungary  will,  no 
doubt,  make  him  comfortable  with  a  good  plate  of  vic- 
tuals. A  couple  of  young  ladies  follow  behind  the  prin- 
cess, Avith  demure  looks,  and  garlands  in  their  hair,  that 
hangs  straiglit  on  their  shoulders,  as  one  sees  it  in  the  old 
ilhiminations.  The  whole  picture  has  a  pleasant,  mystic, 
innocent  look ;  and  one  is  all  the  better  for  regarding  it. 
What  a  fine  instinct  or  taste  it  was  in  the  old  missal  illu- 


ox  MEX  AND  PICTURES  457 

minators  to  be  so  particular  in  the  painting  of  the  minor 
parts  of  their  pictures !  the  precise  manner  in  which  the 
flowers  and  leaves,  birds  and  branches,  are  j^ainted,  gives 
an  air  of  truth  and  simplicity  to  the  whole  performance, 
and  makes  nature,  as  it  were,  an  accomplice  and  actor  in 
the  scene  going  on.  For  instance,  you  maj^  look  at  a 
landscape  with  certain  feelings  of  pleasure;  but  if  you 
have  pulled  a  rose,  and  are  smelling  it,  and  if  of  a  sud- 
den a  blackbird  in  a  bush  hard  by  begins  to  sing  and 
chirrup,  your  feeling  of  pleasure  is  very  much  enhanced 
most  likelv ;  the  senses  with  which  you  examine  the  scene 
become  brightened  as  it  were,  and  the  scene  itself  be- 
comes more  agreeable  to  you.  It  is  not  the  same  place 
as  it  was  before  vou  smelt  the  rose,  or  before  the  black- 
bird  began  to  sing.  Now,  in  Madame  Juillerat's  picture 
of  the  Saint  of  Hungary  and  the  hungry  boy,  if  the 
flowers  on  the  young  ladies'  heads  had  been  omitted,  or 
not  painted  with  their  pleasing  minuteness  and  circum- 
stantiality, I  fancy  that  the  efl'ect  of  the  piece  would 
have  been  by  no  means  the  same.  Another  artist  of  the 
mj^stical  school,  JNIonsieur  Servan,  has  employed  the  same 
adjuncts  in  a  similarly  successful  manner.  One  of  his 
pictures  represents  Saint  Augustin  meditating  in  a  gar- 
den; a  great  cluster  of  rose-bushes,  hollyhocks,  and  other 
plants  is  in  the  foreground,  most  accurate^  delineated; 
and  a  fine  rich  landscape  and  river  stretch  behind  the 
saint,  round  w^hom  the  flowers  seem  to  keep  up  a  mys- 
terious waving  and  whispering  that  fill  one  with  a  sweet, 
pleasing,  indescribable  kind  of  awe— a  great  perfection 
in  this  style  of  painting. 

In  Monsieur  Aguado's  gallery  there  is  an  early  Ra- 
phael (which  all  the  world  declares  to  be  a  copy,  but 
no  matter) .    This  piece  only  represents  two  young  peo- 


458  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

pie  walking  hand-in-hand  in  a  garden,  and  looking  at 
3^ou  with  a  kind  of  "solemn  mirth"  (the  expression  of 
old  Sternhold  and  Hopkins  has  always  struck  me  as 
very  fine) .  A  meadow  is  behind  them,  at  the  end  of 
which  is  a  cottage,  and  by  which  flows  a  river,  environed 
by  certain  very  prim-looking  trees;  and  that  is  all. 
Well;  it  is  impossible  for  any  person  who  has  a  senti- 
ment for  the  art  to  look  at  this  picture  without  feeling 
indescribably  moved  and  pleased  by  it.  It  acts  upon 
you — how?  How  does  a  beautiful,  pious,  tender  air  of 
JSIozart  act  upon  you?  What  is  there  in  it  that  should 
make  you  happy  and  gentle,  and  fill  you  with  all  sorts 
of  good  thoughts  and  kindly  feelings  ?  I  fear  that  what 
Doctor  Thumpcushion  says  at  church  is  correct,  and  that 
these  indulgences  are  only  carnal,  and  of  the  earth 
earthy;  but  the  sensual  effort  in  this  case  carries  one 
quite  away  from  the  earth,  and  up  to  something  that  is 
very  like  heaven. 

Now  the  writer  of  this  has  already  been  severely  rep- 
rehended for  saying  that  Raphael  at  thirty  had  lost  that 
delightful  innocence  and  purity  which  rendered  the 
works  of  Raphael  of  twenty  so  divine;  and  perhaps  it 
may  be  the  critic's  fault,  and  not  the  painter's  (I'm  not 
proud,  and  will  allow  that  even  a  magazine  critic  may 
be  mistaken).  Perhaps,  by  the  greatest  stretch  of  the 
perhaps,  it  may  be  that  Raphael  was  every  whit  as  di- 
vine at  thirty  as  at  eighteen;  and  that  the  very  quaint- 
nesses  and  imperfections  of  manner  observable  in  his 
early  works  are  the  reasons  why  they  appear  so  singu- 
larly pleasing  to  me.  At  least  among  painters  of  the 
present  day,  I  feel  myself  more  disposed  to  recognise 
spiritual  beauties  in  those  whose  powers  of  execution 
are  manifestly  incomplete,  than  in  artists  whose  hands 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  459 

are  skilful  and  manner  formed.  Thus  there  are  scores 
of  large  pictures  here,  hanging  in  the  Louvre,  that 
represent  subjects  taken  from  Holy  Writ,  or  from  the 
lives  of  the  saints, — pictures  skilfully  enough  painted 
and  intended  to  be  religious,  that  have  not  the  slightest 
effect  upon  me,  no  more  than  Doctor  Thumpcushion's 
loudest  and  glibbest  sermon. 

Here  is  No.  1475,  for  instance— a  "Holy  Family," 
painted  in  the  antique  manner,  and  with  all  the  accessor- 
ies before  spoken  of,  viz.  large  flowers,  fresh  roses,  and 
white  stately  lilies;  curling  tendrils  of  vines  forming 
fantastical  canopies  for  the  heads  of  the  sacred  person- 
ages, and  rings  of  gold-leaf  drawn  neatly  round  the 
same.  Here  is  the  Virgin,  with  long,  stiff,  prim  dra- 
peries of  blue,  red,  and  white;  and  old  Saint  Anne  in  a 
sober  dress,  seated  gravely  at  her  side;  and  Saint  Joseph 
in  a  becoming  attitude ;  and  all  very  cleverly  treated,  and 
pleasing  to  the  eye.  But  though  this  picture  is  twice  as 
well  painted  as  any  of  those  before  mentioned,  it  does 
not  touch  my  heart  in  the  least;  nor  do  any  of  the  rest 
of  the  sacred  pieces.  Opposite  the  "  Holy  Family  "  is 
a  great  "JSIartyrdom  of  Polycarp,"  and  the  catalogue 
tells  you  how  the  executioners  first  tried  to  burn  the 
saint;  but  the  fire  went  out,  and  the  executioners  were 
knocked  down;  then  a  soldier  struck  the  saint  with  a 
sword,  and  so  killed  him.  The  legends  recount  numer- 
ous miracles  of  this  sort,  which  I  confess  have  not  any 
very  edifying  effect  upon  me.  Saints  are  clapped  into 
boiling  oil,  which  immediately  turns  cool;  or  their  heads 
are  chopped  off,  and  their  blood  turns  to  milk ;  and  so  on. 
One  can't  understand  why  these  continual  delays  and 
disappointments  take  place,  especially  as  the  martyr  is 
always  killed  at  the  end ;  so  that  it  would  be  best  at  once 


460  CRITICAL  REVIEAVS 

to  put  him  out  of  his  pain.  For  this  reason,  possibly,  the 
execution  of  Saint  Polycarj)  did  not  properly  aiFect  the 
writer  of  this  notice. 

JNIonsieur  Laemlein  has  a  good  picture  of  the 
"Waking  of  Adam,"  so  royally  described  by  Milton, 
a  picture  full  of  gladness,  vigour,  and  sunshine.  There 
is  a  very  fine  figure  of  a  weeping  woman  in  a  picture 
of  the  "Death  of  the  Virgin;"  and  the  Virgin  fall- 
ing in  Monsieur  Steuben's  picture  of  "  Our  Saviour 
going  to  Execution "  is  very  pathetic.  The  mention 
of  this  gentleman  brings  us  to  what  is  called  the 
bourgeois  style  of  art,  of  which  he  is  one  of  the  chief 
professors.  He  excels  in  depicting  a  certain  kind  of 
sentiment,  and  in  the  vulgar,  which  is  often  too  the  true, 
pathetic. 

Steuben  has  painted  many  scores  of  Napoleons;  and 
his  picture  of  Napoleon  this  year  brings  numbers  of  ad- 
miring people  round  it.  The  Emperor  is  seated  on  a 
sofa,  reading  despatches;  and  the  little  King  of  Rome, 
in  a  white  muslin  frock,  with  his  hair  beautifullj^  curled, 
slumbers  on  his  papa's  knee.  What  a  contrast!  The 
conqueror  of  the  world,  the  stern  warrior,  the  great 
giver  of  laws  and  ruler  of  nations,  he  dare  not  move  be- 
cause the  little  baby  is  asleep ;  and  he  would  not  disturb 
liini  for  all  the  kingdoms  he  knows  so  well  how  to  con- 
quer. This  is  not  art,  if  you  please;  but  it  is  pleasant  to 
see  fat  good-natured  mothers  and  grandmothers  clus- 
tered round  tliis  picture,  and  looking  at  it  with  solemn 
eyes.  The  same  painter  has  an  Esmeralda  dancing  and 
fi-isking  in  her  night-gown,  and  playing  the  tambourine 
to  her  goat,  cajicring  likewise.  This  picture  is  so  de- 
liglii fully  bad,  the  little  gipsy  has  such  a  kiUing  ogle, 
that  all  the  world  admires  it.    Monsieur  Steuben  should 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  461 

send  it  to  London,  where  it  would  be  sure  of  a  ffiffantic 
success. 

Monsieur  Grenier  has  a  piece  much  looked  at,  in  the 
bourgeois  line.  Some  rogues  of  gipsies,  or  mounte- 
banks, have  kidnapped  a  fine  fat  child,  and  are  stripping 
it  of  its  jDrett}^  clothes ;  and  poor  baby  is  crying ;  and  the 
gipsy-woman  holding  up  her  finger,  and  threatening; 
and  the  he-mountebank  is  lying  on  a  bank,  smoking 
his  pipe,— the  callous  monster!  Preciously  the)^  will 
ill-treat  that  dear  little  darling,  if  justice  do  not  overtake 
them,— if,  ay,  if.  But,  thank  Heaven!  there  in  the  cor- 
ner come  the  police,  and  they  will  have  that  pipe-smoking 
scoundrel  off  to  the  galleys  before  five  minutes  are  over. 

1056.  A  picture  of  the  galleys.  Two  galley-slaves 
are  before  you,  and  the  piece  is  called  "  A  Crime  and  a 
Fault."  The  poor  "  Fault "  is  sitting  on  a  stone,  look- 
ing very  repentant  and  unhappy  indeed.  The  great 
"  Crime  "  stands  grinning  you  in  the  face,  smoking  his 
pipe.  The  ruflian !  That  pipe  seems  to  be  a  great  mark 
of  callosity  in  ruffians.  I  heard  one  man  whisper  to 
another,  as  they  were  looking  at  these  galley-slaves, 
" They  are  portraits''  and  very  much  affected  his  com- 
panion seemed  by  the  information. 

Of  a  similar  virtuous  interest  is  705,  by  INIonsieur 
Finart,  "  A  Famity  of  African  Colonists  carried  off  by 
Abd-el-Kader."  There  is  the  poor  male  colonist  with- 
out a  single  thing  on  but  a  rope  round  his  wrists.  His 
silver  skin  is  dabbled  with  his  golden  blood,  and  he  looks 
up  to  heaven  as  the  Arabs  are  poking  him  on  with  the 
tips  of  their  horrid  spears.  Behind  him  come  his  flocks 
and  herds,  and  other  members  of  his  family.  In  front, 
principal  figure,  is  his  angelic  wife  in  her  night-gown, 
and  in  the  arms  of  an  odious  blackamoor  on  horseback. 


4G2  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Poor  thing— poor  thing!  she  is  kicking,  and  struggling, 
and  resisting  as  hard  as  she  possibh^  can. 
485.  **  The  Two  Friends."    Debay. 

"Deux  jeunes  femmes  se  donnent  le  gage  le  plus  sacre  d'une 
amitie  sincere,  dans  un  acte  de  devoument  et  de  reconnaissance. 

"  L'une  d'elles,  faible,  extenuee  d'efForts  inutilement  tentes 
pour  allaiter,  decouvre  son  sein  tari,  cause  du  deperissement  de 
son  enfant.  Sa  douleur  est  comprise  par  son  amie,  a  qui  la  sante 
permet  d'aj outer  au  bonheur  de  nourrir  son  propre  enfant,  celui 
de  rappeler  a  la  vie  le  fils  mourant  de  sa  compagne." 

Monsieur  Debay's  pictures  are  not  bad,  as  most  of  the 
others  here  mentioned  as  appertaining  to  the  bourgeois 
class ;  but,  good  or  bad,  I  can't  but  own  that  I  like  to  see 
those  honest  hearty  representations,  which  work  upon 
good  simple  feeling  in  a  good  down-right  way;  and  if 
not  M^orks  of  art,  are  certainly  works  that  can  do  a  great 
deal  of  good,  and  make  honest  people  happy.  Who  is 
the  man  that  despises  melodramas?  I  swear  that  T.  P. 
Cooke  is  a  benefactor  to  mankind.  Away  with  him  who 
has  no  stomach  for  such  kind  of  entertainments,  where 
vice  is  always  punished,  where  virtue  always  meets  its 
reward;  where  IMrs.  James  Vining  is  always  sure  to  be 
made  comfortable  somewhere  at  the  end  of  the  third  act; 
and  if  O.  Smith  is  lying  in  agonies  of  death,  in  red 
breeches,  on  the  front  of  the  stage,  or  has  just  gone  oiF 
in  a  flash  of  fire  down  one  of  the  traps,  I  know  it  is  only 
make-believe  on  his  part,  and  believe  him  to  be  a  good 
kind-hearted  fellow,  that  would  not  do  harm  to  mortal! 
So  much  for  pictures  of  the  serious  melodramatic  sort. 

Monsieur  Biard,  whose  picture  of  the  "  Slave-trade  " 
made  so  much  noise  in  London  last  year — and  indeed  it  is 
as  fine  as  Hogarth— has  this  year  many  comic  pieces,  and 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  463 

a  series  representing  the  present  ^Majesty  of  France  when 
Duke  of  Orleans,  undergoing  various  perils  by  land  and 
by  water.  There  is  much  good  in  these  pieces;  but  I 
mean  no  disrespect  in  saying  I  like  the  comic  ones  best. 
There  is  one  entitled  "  Une  Distraction."  A  National 
Guard  is  amusing  himself  by  catching  flies.  You  can't 
fail  to  laugh  when  you  see  it.  There  is  "  Le  Gros 
Peche,"  and  the  biggest  of  all  sins,  no  less  than  a  drum- 
major  confessing.  You  can't  see  the  monster's  face, 
which  the  painter  has  wisely  hidden  behind  the  curtain, 
as  beyond  the  reach  of  art ;  but  you  see  the  priest's,  and 
murder!  what  a  sin  it  must  be  that  the  big  tambour  has 
just  imparted  to  him!  All  the  French  critics  sneer  at 
Biard,  as  they  do  at  Paul  de  Kock,  for  not  being  artisti- 
cal  enough;  but  I  do  not  think  these  gentlemen  need 
mind  the  sneer;  they  have  the  millions  with  them,  as 
Feargus  O'Connor  says,  and  they  are  good  judges,  after 
all. 

A  great  comfort  it  is  to  think  that  there  is  a  reason- 
able prospect  that,  for  the  future,  very  few  more  battle- 
pieces  will  be  painted.  They  have  used  up  all  the  vic- 
tories, and  Versailles  is  almost  full.  So  this  year,  much 
to  my  happiness,  only  a  few  yards  of  war-like  canvas 
are  exhibited  in  place  of  the  furlongs  which  one  was 
called  upon  to  examine  in  former  exhibitions.  One  re- 
treat from  INIoscow  is  there,  and  one  storming  of  El 
Gibbet,  or  El  Arish,  or  some  such  place  in  Africa.  In 
the  latter  picture,  you  see  a  thousand  fellows  in  loose  red 
pantaloons,  rushing  up  a  hill  with  base  heathen  Turks 
on  the  top,  who  are  firing  ofl"  guns,  carabines,  and  other 
pieces  of  ordnance,  at  them.  All  this  is  very  well  painted 
by  Monsieur  Bollange,  and  the  rush  of  red  breeches  has 
a  queer  and  pleasing  effect.    In  the  Russian  piece  you 


4G4  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

have  frozen  men  and  cattle;  mothers  embracing  their 
offspring;  grenadiers  scowHng  at  the  enemy,  and  espe- 
cially one  fellow  standing  on  a  bank  with  his  bayonet 
placed  in  the  attitude  for  receiving  the  charge,  and  ac- 
tually charged  by  a  whole  regiment  of  Cossacks,— a 
complete  pulk,  my  dear  madam,  coming  on  in  three  lines, 
with  their  lances  pointed  against  this  undaunted  warrior 
of  France.  I  believe  Monsieur  Thiers  sat  for  the  por- 
trait, or  else  the  editor  of  the  Courrier  Fi'anfais,— the 
two  men  in  this  belligerent  nation  who  are  the  belliger- 
entest.  A  propos  of  Thiers ;  the  Nouvelles  a  la  Main  has 
a  good  storj^  of  this  little  sham  Napoleon.  When  the 
second  son  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  was  born  (I  forget 
his  Royal  Highness's  title),  news  was  brought  to  Mon- 
sieur Thiers.  He  was  told  the  Princess  was  well,  and 
asked  the  courier  who  brought  the  news,  "  Comment  se 
portait  le  Roi  de  Rome?  "  It  may  be  said,  in  confidence, 
that  there  is  not  a  single  word  of  truth  in  the  story.  But 
what  of  that?  Are  not  sham  stories  as  good  as  real  ones? 
Ask  Monsieur  Leullier ;  who,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  been 
said  and  written  upon  a  certain  seafight,  has  actually 
this  5''ear  come  forward  with  his. 

1311.  "  Heroisme  de  I'Equipage  du  Vaisseau  le  Ven- 
geur,  4  Juin,  1794." 

"Apres  avoir  soutenu  longtemps  un  combat  acharne  contre 
trois  vaisseaux  Anglais,  le  vaisseau  le  Vengeur  avait  perdu  la 
moitie  de  son  equipage,  le  reste  etait  blesse  pour  la  plupart;  le 
second  capitaine  avait  ete  coupe  en  deux  par  un  boulet ;  le  vais- 
seau etait  rase  par  le  feu  de  I'ennemi,  sa  mature  abattue,  ses  flancs 
cribles  par  les  boulcts  etaient  ouverts  de  toutes  parts ;  sa  cale  se 
remplissait  a  vue  d'oeil ;  il  s'cnfon^ait  dans  la  mer.  Les  marlns 
qui  rcstent  sur  son  bord  servent  la  batterle  basse  jusqu'a  ce  qu'elle 
se  trouve  au  niveau  de  la  mer ;  quand  ellc  va  disparaitre,  lis  s'elan- 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  4G5 

cent  dans  la  seconde,  ou  ils  repetent  la  meme  manoeuvre ;  celle-ci 
engloutie,  ils  montent  sur  le  pont.  Un  tron9on  de  mat  d'artimon 
restait  encore  debout ;  leurs  pavilions  en  lambeaux  y  sont  clones ; 
puis,  reunissant  instinctivement  leurs  volontes  en  une  seule  pensee, 
ils  veulent  perir  avec  le  navire  qui  leur  a  ete  confie.  Tons,  com- 
battants,  blesses,  mourants  se  raniment:  un  cri  immense  s'eleve, 
repete  sur  toutes  Ics  parties  du  tillac:  Vive  la  Republique!  Vive 
la  France!  .  .  .  Le  Vengeur  coule  .  .  .  les  cris  continuent;  tons 
les  bras  sont  dresses  au  ciel,  et  ces  braves,  preferant  la  mort  a  la 
captivite,  emportent  triomphalement  leur  pavilion  dans  ce  glo- 
rieux  tombeau." — France  Maritime. 

I  think  IMr.  Thomas  Carlvle  is  in  the  occasional  habit 
of  calling  lies  wind-bags.  This  wind-bag,  one  would 
have  thought,  exploded  last  year;  but  no  such  thing. 
You  cant  sink  it,  do  what  you  will;  it  always  comes 
bouncing  uj)  to  the  surface  again,  where  it  swims  and 
bobs  about  gaily  for  the  admiration  of  all.  This  lie  the 
Frenchman  Mill  believe;  all  the  papers  talk  gravely 
about  the  aif  air  of  the  "  Vengeur,"  as  if  an  estabhshed 
fact ;  and  I  heard  the  matter  disj^osed  of  by  some  artists 
the  other  day  in  a  very  satisfactory  manner.  One  has 
always  the  gratification,  in  all  French  societies  where  the 
matter  is  discussed,  of  telling  the  real  story  (or  if  the 
subject  be  not  discussed,  of  bringing  the  conversation 
round  to  it,  and  then  telling  the  real  story)  ;  one  has  al- 
ways this  gratification,  and  a  great,  wicked,  delightful 
one  it  is,— you  make  the  whole  company  uncomfortable 
at  once;  3'ou  narrate  the  history  in  a  calm,  good- 
humoured,  dispassionate  tone;  and  as  j^ou  proceed,  you 
see  the  different  personages  of  the  audience  looking  un- 
easily at  one  another,  and  bursting  out  occasionally  with 
a  "INIais  cependant;"  but  you  continue  your  tale  with 
perfect  suavity  of  manner,  and  have  the  satisfaction  of 


466  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

knowing  that  you  have  stuck  a  dagger  into  the  heart  of 
every  single  person  using  it. 

TelHng,  I  say,  this  story  to  some  artists  who  were 
examining  Monsieur  Leuilier's  picture,  and  I  trust  that 
many  scores  of  persons  besides  were  Hstening  to  the 
conversation,  one  of  them  repHed  to  my  assertion,  that 
Captain  Renaudin's  letters  were  extant,  and  that  the 
whole  affair  was  a  humbug,  in  the  following  way. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  the  sinking  of  the  '  Vengeur '  is  an 
established  fact  of  history.  It  is  completely  proved  by 
the  documents  of  the  time ;  and  as  for  the  letters  of  Cap- 
tain Renaudin  of  which  you  speak,  have  we  not  had  an 
example  the  other  day  of  some  pretended  letters  of  Louis 
Philippe's  which  were  published  in  a  newspaper  here? 
And  what,  sir,  were  those  letters?    Forgeries!'' 

Q.  E.  D.  Everybody  said  sansculotte  was  right :  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that,  if  all  the  "  Vengeur 's  "  crew  could  rise 
from  the  dead,  and  that  English  cox — or  boat — swain, 
who  was  last  on  board  the  ship}  of  w^hich  he  and  his 
comrades  had  possession,  and  had  to  swim  for  his  life, 
could  come  forward,  and  swear  to  the  real  story,  I  make 
no  doubt  that  the  Frenchmen  would  not  believe  it.  Only 
one  I  know,  my  friend  Julius,  who,  ever  since  the  tale 
has  been  told  to  him,  has  been  crying  it  into  all  ears  and 
in  all  societies,  and  vows  he  is  perfectly  hoarse  with  tell- 
ing it. 

As  for  Monsieur  Leuilier's  picture,  there  is  really  a 
great  deal  of  good  in  it.  Fellows  embracing,  and  others 
lifting  up  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven ;  and  in  the  distance 
an  English  ship,  with  the  crew  in  red  coats,  firing  away 
on  the  doomed  vessel.     Possibly,  they  are  only  marines 

*  The  writer  heard  of  this  man  from  an  English  captain  in  the  navy, 
who  had  him  on  board  his  ship. 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  467 

whom  we  see;  but  as  I  once  beheld  several  English  naval 
officers  in  a  play  habited  in  top-boots,  perhaps  the  legend 
in  France  may  be,  that  the  navy,  like  the  army,  with  us, 
is  caparisoned  in  scarlet.  A  good  subject  for  another 
historical  picture  would  be  Cambronne,  saying,  "  La 
Garde  meurt,  mais  ne  se  rend  pas."  I  have  bought  a 
couple  of  engravings  of  the  "  Vengeur"  and  Cambronne, 
and  shall  be  glad  to  make  a  little  historical  collection 
of  facts  similarly  authenticated. 

Accursed,  I  sav,  be  all  uniform  coats  of  blue  or  of 
red ;  all  ye  epaulets  and  sabretashes ;  all  ye  guns,  shrap- 
nels, and  musketoons;  all  ye  silken  banners  embroidered 
with  bloody  reminiscences  of  successful  fights:  down — 
down  to  the  bottomless  pit  with  you  all,  and  let  honest 
men  live  and  love  each  other  without  you!  What  busi- 
ness have  I,  forsooth,  to  plume  myself  because  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  beat  the  French  in  Spain  and  elsewhere ; 
and  kindle  as  I  read  the  tale,  and  fanc}^  myself  of  an 
heroic  stock,  because  my  uncle  Tom  was  at  the  battle  of 
Waterloo,  and  because  we  beat  Napoleon  there?  Who 
are  ticc,  in  the  name  of  Beelzebub  ?  Did  we  ever  fight  in 
our  lives?  Have  we  the  slightest  inclination  for  fight- 
ing and  murdering  one  another?  Why  are  we  to  go  on 
hating  one  another  from  generation  to  generation,  swell- 
ing up  our  little  bosoms  with  absurd  national  conceit, 
strutting  and  crowing  over  our  neighbours,  and  longing 
to  be  at  fisticuffs  with  them  again?  As  Aristotle  re- 
marks, in  war  there  are  always  two  parties ;  and  though 
it  often  happens  that  both  declare  themselves  to  be  vic- 
torious, it  still  is  generally  the  case  that  one  party  beats 
and  the  other  is  beaten.  The  conqueror  is  thus  filled 
with  national  pride,  and  the  conquered  with  national 
hatred  and  a  desire  to  do  better  next  time.     If  he  has 


468  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

his  revenge  and  beats  his  opj^onent  as  desired,  these 
agreeable  feelings  are  reversed,  and  so  Pride  and  Hatred 
continue  in  scecula  sceculorunij,  and  ribands  and  orders 
are  given  away,  and  great  men  rise  and  flourish.  "  Re- 
member 3^ou  are  Britons!"  cries  our  general;  "there  is 
the  enemy,  and  d 'em,  give  'em  the  bayonet !  "  Hur- 
rah! helter-skelter,  load  and  fire,  cut  and  thrust,  down 
they  go!  "  Soldats!  dans  ce  moment  terrible  la  France 
vous  regarde!  Vive  I'Empereur!  "  shouts  Jacques  Bon- 
homme,  and  his  sword  is  through  your  ribs  in  a  twink- 
ling. "Children!"  roars  Feld-marechal  Sauerkraut, 
"men  of  Hohenzollernsigmaringen !  remember  the  eyes 
of  Vaterland  are  upon  you!"  and  murder  again  is  the 
consequence.  Tomahee-tereboo  leads  on  the  Ashantees 
with  the  very  same  war-cry,  and  they  eat  all  their  pris- 
oners witli  true  patriotic  cannibalism. 

Thus  the  great  truth  is  handed  down  from  father  to 
son,  that 

A  Briton, 

A  Frenchman, 

.      .  1       .  > is  superior  to  all  the  world ; 

A  Hohenzollernslgmaringenite,  &c. 

and  by  this  truth  the  dullards  of  the  respective  nations 
swear,  and  by  it  statesmen  govern. 

Let  the  reader  sav  for  himself,  does  he  not  believe 
himself  to  be  superior  to  a  man  of  an}^  other  country? 
We  can't  help  it — in  spite  of  ourselves  we  do.  But  if, 
by  changing  the  name,  the  fable  applies  to  yourself,  why 
do  you  laugh? 

<I»a^DXa  vappatDp, 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  469 

as  a  certain  poet  says  (in  a  quotation  that  is  pretty  well 
known  in  England,  and  therefore  put  down  here  in  a 
new  fashion) .  Why  do  j^ou  laugh,  forsooth?  Why  do 
you  not  laugh?  If  donkey's  ears  are  a  matter  of  laugh- 
ter, surely  we  may  laugh  at  them  when  growing  on  our 
own  skulls. 

Take  a  couple  of  instances  from  "  actual  life,"  as  the 
fashionable  novel-puffers  say. 

A  little  fat  sillv  woman,  who  in  no  country  but  this 
would  ever  have  pretensions  to  beauty,  has  lately  set  up  a 
circulating  library  in  our  street.  She  lends  the  five- 
franc  editions  of  the  English  novels,  as  well  as  the  ro- 
mances of  her  own  country,  and  I  have  had  several  of 
the  former  works  of  fiction  from  her  store:  Bulwer's 
"  Night  and  Morning,"  very  pleasant  kind-hearted  read- 
ing; "Peter  Priggins,"  an  astonishing  work  of  slang, 
that  ought  to  be  translated  if  but  to  give  Europe  an  idea 
of  what  a  gay  young  gentleman  in  England  sometimes 
is;  and  other  novels — never  mind  what.  But  to  revert 
to  the  fat  woman. 

She  sits  all  day  ogling  and  simpering  behind  her  lit- 
tle counter;  and  from  the  slow,  prim,  precise  way  in 
which  she  lets  her  silly  sentences  slip  through  her  mouth, 
you  see  at  once  that  she  is  quite  satisfied  with  them,  and 
expects  that  every  customer  should  give  her  an  oppor- 
tunity of  uttering  a  few  of  them  for  his  benefit.  Going 
there  for  a  book,  I  always  find  myself  entangled  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  conversation. 

This  is  carried  on  in  not  very  bad  French  on  my  part ; 
at  least  I  find  that  when  I  say  something  genteel  to  the 
library-woman,  she  is  not  at  a  loss  to  understand  me,  and 
we  have  passed  already  many  minutes  in  this  kind  of  in- 
tercourse.     Two    days    since,    returning    "  Night    and 


470  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Morning"  to  the  library -lady  and  demanding  the  ro- 
mance of  "  Peter  Priggins,"  she  offered  m.e  instead 
"  Ida,"  par  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  Darlincourt,  which  I 
refused,  having  already  experienced  some  of  his  lord- 
ship's works;  next  she  produced  "Stella,"  "Valida," 
"Eloa,"  by  various  French  ladies  of  literary  celebrity; 
but  again  I  declined,  declaring  respectfully  that,  how- 
ever agreeable  the  society  of  ladies  might  be,  I  found 
their  works  a  little  insipid.  The  fact  is,  that  after  being 
accustomed  to  such  potent  mixtures  as  the  French  ro- 
mancers offer  you,  the  mild  compositions  of  the  French 
romanceresses  pall  on  the  palate.^ 

"  Madame,"  says  I,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  "  je  ne 
demande  qu'un  roman  Anglais,  '  Peter  Priggins : ' 
I'avez-vous?  ouiounon?" 

"Ah!"  says  the  library-woman,  "Monsieur  ne  com- 
prend  pas  notre  langue,  c'est  dommage." 

Now  one  might,  at  first  sight,  fancy  the  above  speech 
an  epigram,  and  not  a  bad  one,  on  an  Englishman's 
blundering  French  grammar  and  pronunciation;  but 
those  who  know  the  library-lady  must  be  aware  that  she 
never  was  guilty  of  such  a  thing  in  her  life.  It  was 
simply  a  French  bull,  resulting  from  the  lady's  dulness, 
and  by  no  means  a  sarcasm.  She  uttered  the  words  with 
a  great  air  of  superiority  and  a  prim  toss  of  the  head,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  How  much  cleverer  I  am  than  you,  you 
silly  foreigner !  and  w^hat  a  fine  thing  it  is  in  me  to  know 
the  finest  language  in  the  world!"  In  this  way  I  have 
heard  donkeys  of  our  two  countries  address  foreigners 

'  In  our  own  country,  of  course,  Mrs.  Trollope,  Miss  Mitford,  Miss  Pardoe, 
Mrs.  Charles  Gore,  Miss  Edgeworth,  Miss  Ferrier,  Miss  Stickney,  Miss  Bar- 
rett, Lady  Blessington,  Miss  Smith,  Mrs.  Austin,  Miss  Austen,  &c.,  form  ex- 
ceptions to  tliis  rule;  and  p;lad  am  I  to  offer  per  favour  of  this  note  a  humble 
tribute  of  admiration  to  those  ladies. 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES  471 

in  broken  English  or  French,  as  if  people  who  could  not 
understand  a  language  when  properly  spoken  could 
comprehend  it  when  spoken  ill.  Why  the  deuce  do  peo- 
ple give  themselves  these  impertinent  stupid  airs  of 
superiority,  and  pique  themselves  upon  the  great  clever- 
ness of  speaking  their  own  language  ? 

Take  another  instance  of  this  same  egregious  national 
conceit.  At  the  English  pastrycook's —  (you  can't  read- 
ih^  find  a  prettier  or  more  graceful  woman  than  ^ladame 
Colombin,  nor  better  plum-cake  than  she  sells)  — at 
ISIadame  Colombin's,  yesterday,  a  huge  Briton,  with 
sandy  whiskers  and  a  double  chin,  was  swallowing  pat- 
ties and  cherry-brandy,  and  all  the  while  making  remarks 
to  a  friend  similarly  employed.  They  were  talking 
about  English  and  French  ships. 

"  Hang  me,  Higgins,"  says  Sandy-whiskers,  "  if  7'd 
ever  go  into  one  of  their  cursed  French  ships !  I  should 
be  afraid  of  sinking  at  the  very  first  pufF  of  wind! " 

What  Higgins  replied  does  not  matter.  But  think 
what  a  number  of  Sandy-whiskerses  there  are  in  our  na- 
tion,—  fellows  who  are  proud  of  this  stupid  mistrust, — 
who  think  it  a  mark  of  national  spirit  to  despise  French 
skill,  bravery,  cookery,  seamanship,  and  what  not. 
Swallow  your  beef  and  porter,  you  great  fat-paunched 
man;  enjoy  your  language  and  your  country,  as  you 
have  been  bred  to  do;  but  don't  fancv  yourself,  on  ac- 
count  of  these  inheritances  of  yours,  superior  to  other 
people  of  other  ways  and  language.  You  have  luck, 
perhaps,  if  you  will,  in  having  such  a  diet  and  dwelling- 
place,  but  no  merit.  .  .  .  And  with  this  little  dis- 
cursive essay  upon  national  prejudices  let  us  come  back 
to  the  pictures,  and  finish  our  walk  through  the  gallery. 

In  that  agreeable  branch  of  the  art  for  which  we  have 


472  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

I  believe  no  name,  but  which  the  French  call  genre,  there 
are  at  Paris  several  eminent  professors ;  and  as  upon  the 
French  stage  the  costume-pieces  are  far  better  produced 
than  with  us,  so  also  are  French  costume-pictures  much 
more  accurately  and  characteristically  handled  than  are 
such  subjects  in  our  own  country.  You  do  not  see  Cim- 
abue  and  Giotto  in  the  costume  of  Francis  I.,  as  thev 
appeared  (depicted  by  Mr.  Simpson,  I  think)  in  the 
Royal  Academy  Exhibition  of  last  j''ear;  but  the  artists 
go  to  some  trouble  in  collecting  their  antiquarian  stuff, 
and  paint  it  pretty  scrupulously. 

Monsieur  Jacquard  has  some  pretty  small  pictures  de 
genre;  a  yery  good  one,  indeed,  of  fat  "  Monks  granting 
Absolution  from  Fasting;"  of  which  the  details  are 
finely  and  accurately  painted,  a  task  more  easy  for  a 
French  artist  than  an  English  one,  for  the  former's 
studio  (as  may  be  seen  by  a  picture  in  this  exhibition)  is 
generally  a  magnificent  curiosity  shop ;  and  for  old  carv- 
ings, screens,  crockery,  armour,  draperies,  &c.,  the 
painter  here  has  but  to  look  to  his  own  walls  and  copy 
away  at  his  ease.  Accordingly  Jacquard's  monks,  espe- 
cially all  the  properties  of  the  picture,  are  admirable. 

Monsieur  Baron  has  "  The  Youth  of  Ribera,"  a  merry 
Spanish  beggar-boy,  among  a  crowd  of  his  like,  drawing 
sketches  of  them  under  a  garden  wall.  The  figures  are 
very  prettily  thought  and  grouped;  there  is  a  fine  ter- 
race, and  palace,  and  statues  in  the  background,  very 
rich  and  luxurious;  perhaps  too  pretty  and  gay  in 
colours,  and  too  strong  in  details. 

But  tlie  king  of  the  painters  of  small  history  subjects 
is  Monsieur  Robert  Fleury ;  a  great  artist  indeed,  and  I 
trust  heartily  he  may  be  induced  to  send  one  or  two  of  his 
pieces  to  London,  to  show  our  people  what  he  can  do. 


ON   MEN   AND   PICTURES  473 

His  mind,  judging  from  his  works,  is  rather  of  a  gloomy 
turn;  and  he  deals  somewhat  too  much,  to  my  taste,  in 
the  horrible.  He  has  this  year  "  A  Scene  in  the  Inqui- 
sition." A  man  is  howling  and  writhing  with  his  feet 
over  a  fire ;  grim  inquisitors  are  watching  over  him ;  and 
a  dreadful  executioner,  with  fierce  eyes  peering  from 
under  a  mysterious  capuchin,  is  doggedly  sitting  over  the 
coals.  The  picture  is  downright  horror,  but  admirably 
and  honestly  drawn;  and  in  effect  rich,  sombre,  and 
simple. 

"  Benvenuto  Cellini "  is  better  still ;  and  the  critics 
have  lauded  the  piece  as  giving  a  good  idea  of  the  fierce 
fantastic  Florentine  sculptor;  but  I  think  JMonsieur 
Fleury  has  taken  him  in  too  grim  a  mood,  and  made  his 
ferocity  too  downright.  There  was  always  a  dash  of 
the  ridiculous  in  the  man,  even  in  his  most  truculent  mo- 
ments ;  and  I  fancy  that  such  simple  rage  as  is  here  rep- 
resented scarcely  characterises  him.  The  fellow  never 
cut  a  throat  without  some  sense  of  humour,  and  here  we 
have  him  greatly  too  majestic  to  my  taste. 

"  Old  INI'chael  Angelo  watching  over  the  Sick-bed  of 
his  servant  Urbino"  is  a  noble  painting;  as  fine  in  feel- 
ing as  in  design  and  colour.  One  can't  but  admire  in 
all  these  the  manliness  of  the  artist.  The  picture  is 
painted  in  a  large,  rich,  massive,  vigorous  manner;  and 
it  is  gratifying  to  see  that  this  great  man,  after  resolute 
seeking  for  many  years,  has  found  the  full  use  of  his 
hand  at  last,  and  can  express  himself  as  he  would.  The 
picture  is  fit  to  hang  in  the  very  best  gallery  in  the  world ; 
and  a  century  hence  will  no  doubt  be  worth  five  times  as 
many  crowns  as  the  artist  asks  or  has  had  for  it. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  great  pictures,  let  us  here 
mention, 


474  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

712.     "  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  by  Hippolyte  Flandrin. 

Of  this  portrait  all  I  can  say  is,  that  if  you  take  the 
best  portraits  by  the  best  masters — a  head  of  Sebastian 
or  Michael  Angelo,  a  head  of  Raphael,  or  one  of  those 
rarer  ones  of  Andrea  del  Sarto— not  one  of  them,  for 
lofty  character  and  majestic  nobleness  and  simplicity, 
can  surpass  this  magnificent  work. 

This  seems,  doubtless,  very  exaggerated  praise,  and 
people  reading  it  may  possibly  sneer  at  the  critic  who 
ventures  to  speak  in  such  a  way.  To  all  such  I  say. 
Come  and  see  it.  You  who  admire  Sir  Thomas  and  the 
"  Books  of  Beauty  "  will  possibly  not  admire  it;  you  who 
give  ten  thousand  guineas  for  a  blowsy  jNlurillo  will  pos- 
sibly not  relish  JNIonsieur  Flandrin's  manner;  but  you 
who  love  simplicity  and  greatness  come  and  see  how  an 
old  lady,  with  a  black  mantilla  and  dark  eyes,  and  grey 
hair  and  a  few  red  flowers  in  her  cap,  has  been  painted 
by  JMonsieur  Flandrin  of  Lyons.  If  I  were  Louis  Phi- 
lippe, I  would  send  a  legion-of -honour  cross,  of  the  big- 
gest sort,  to  decorate  the  bosom  of  the  painter  who  has 
executed  this  noble  piece. 

As  for  portraits  ( with  the  exception  of  this  one,  which 
no  man  in  England  can  equal,  not  even  Mr.  Samuel 
Lawrence,  who  is  trying  to  get  to  this  point,  but  has  not 
reached  it  yet)  our  English  painters  keep  the  lead  still, 
nor  is  there  much  remarkable  among  the  hundreds  in  the 
gallery.  There  are  vast  numbers  of  English  faces  star- 
ing at  you  from  the  canvases ;  and  among  the  miniatures 
especially  one  can't  help  laughing  at  the  continual  recur- 
rence of  the  healthy,  vacant,  simpering,  aristocratic  Eng- 
lish type.  There  are  black  velvets  and  satins,  ladies  with 
birds  of  paradise,  deputies  on  sofas,  and  generals  and 
marshals  in  the  midst  of  smoke  and  cannon-balls.     No- 


ox  MEN  AND  PICTURES  475 

thing  can  be  less  to  my  taste  than  a  pot-bellied  swagger- 
ing Marshal  Soult,  who  rests  his  baton  on  his  stomach, 
and  looks  at  you  in  the  midst  of  a  dim  cloud  of  war. 
The  Duchesse  de  Nemours  is  done  by  Monsieur  Winter- 
halter,  and  has  a  place  of  honour,  as  becomes  a  good  por- 
trait ;  and,  above  all,  such  a  pretty  lady.  She  is  a  pretty, 
smiling,  buxom  blonde,  with  plenty  of  hair,  and  rather 
too  much  hands,  not  to  speak  disrespectfully ;  and  a  slice 
of  lace  which  goes  across  the  middle  of  her  white  satin 
gown  seems  to  cut  the  picture  very  disagreeably  in  two. 
There  is  a  beautiful  head  in  a  large  portrait  of  a  lad  of 
eighteen,  painted  by  himself;  and  here  may  be  men- 
tioned two  single  figures  in  pastel  by  an  architect,  re- 
markable for  earnest  spirituel  beauty;  likewise  two 
heads  in  chalk  by  De  Rudder;  most  charming  sketches, 
full  of  delicacy,  grace,  and  truth. 

The  only  one  of  the  acknowledged  great  who  has  ex- 
hibited this  year  is  Monsieur  Delacroix,  who  has  a  large 
picture  relative  to  the  siege  of  Constantinople  that  looks 
very  like  a  piece  of  crumpled  tapestry,  but  that  has 
nevertheless  its  admirers  and  its  merits,  as  what  work  of 
his  has  not? 

His  two  smaller  pieces  are  charming,  "A  Jewish 
Wedding  at  Tangiers  "  is  brilliant  with  light  and  merri- 
ment ;  a  particular  sort  of  merriment,  that  is,  that  makes 
you  gloomy  in  the  very  midst  of  the  heyday:  and  his 
"  Boat "  is  awful.  A  score  of  shipwrecked  men  are  in 
this  boat,  on  a  great,  wide,  swollen,  interminable  sea — no 
hope,  no  speck  of  sail — and  they  are  drawing  lots  which 
shall  be  killed  and  eaten.  A  burly  seaman,  with  a  red 
beard,  has  just  put  his  hand  into  the  hat  and  is  touching 
his  own  to  the  officer.  One  fellow  sits  with  his  hands 
clasped,  and  gazing— gazing  into  the  great  void  before 


476  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

him.  By  Jupiter,  his  eyes  are  unfathomable!  he  is 
looking  at  miles  and  miles  of  lead-coloured,  bitter,  piti- 
less brine!  Indeed  one  can't  bear  to  look  at  him  long; 
nor  at  that  poor  woman,  so  sickly  and  so  beautiful,  whom 
they  may  as  well  kill  at  once,  or  she  will  save  them  the 
trouble  of  drawing  straws;  and  give  up  to  their  maws 
that  poor,  white,  faded,  delicate,  shrivelled  carcass.  Ah, 
what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  hungry!  Oh,  Eugenius  Dela- 
croix !  how  can  you  manage,  with  a  few  paint-bladders, 
and  a  dirty  brush,  and  a  careless  hand,  to  dash  down  such 
savage  histories  as  these,  and  fill  people's  minds  with 
thoughts  so  dreadful?  Ay,  there  it  is;  whenever  I  go 
through  that  part  of  the  gallery  where  Monsieur  Dela- 
croix's picture  is,  I  always  turn  away  now,  and  look  at  a 
fat  woman  with  a  parroquet  opposite.  For  what's  the 
use  of  being  uncomfortable  ? 

Another  great  picture  is  one  of  about  four  inches 
square — "  The  Chess-Players,"  by  Monsieur  Meissonier 
— truly  an  astonishing  piece  of  workmanship.  No  silly 
tricks  of  effect,  and  abrupt  startling  shadow  and  light, 
but  a  picture  painted  with  the  minuteness  and  accuracy 
of  a  daguerreotype,  and  as  near  as  possible  perfect  in  its 
kind.  Two  men  are  playing  at  chess,  and  the  chess-men 
are  no  bigger  than  pin-heads ;  every  one  of  them  an  ac- 
curate portrait,  with  all  the  light,  shadow,  roundness, 
character,  and  colour  belonging  to  it. 

Of  the  landscapes  it  is  very  hard  indeed  to  speak,  for 
professors  of  landscape  almost  all  execute  their  art  well; 
but  few  so  well  as  to  strike  one  with  especial  attention, 
or  to  produce  much  remark.  Constable  has  been  a  great 
friend  to  tlie  new  landscape-school  in  France,  who  have 
laid  aside  the  slimy  weak  manner  formerly  in  vogue,  and 
perhaps  have  adopted  in  its  place  a  method  equally  rep- 


ox  MEN  AND  PICTURES  477 

rehensible — that  of  plastering  their  pictures  excessively. 
When  you  wish  to  represent  a  piece  of  old  timber,  or  a 
crumbling  wall,  or  the  ruts  and  stones  in  a  road,  this  im- 
pasting method  is  very  successful ;  but  here  the  skies  are 
trowelled  on;  the  light-vapouring  distances  are  as  thick 
as  plum-pudding,  the  cool  clear  shadows  are  mashed- 
down  masses  of  sienna  and  indigo.  But  it  is  undeniable 
that,  by  these  violent  means,  a  certain  power  is  had,  and 
noonday  effects  of  strong  sunshine  are  often  dashingly 
rendered. 

How  much  pleasanter  is  it  to  see  a  little  quiet  grey 
waste  of  David  Cox  than  the  very  best  and  smartest  of 
such  works !  Some  men  from  Diisseldorf  have  sent  very 
fine  scientific  faithful  pictures,  that  are  a  little  heavy, 
but  still  you  see  that  they  are  portraits  drawn  respect- 
fully from  the  great,  beautiful,  various,  divine  face  of 
Nature. 

In  the  statue-gallery  there  is  nothing  worth  talking 
about ;  and  so.  let  us  make  an  end  of  the  Louvre,  and 
politely  wish  a  good  morning  to  everybodj''. 

{Fraser^s  Magazine,  July  1841.) 


MAY  GAMBOLS;  OR,  TITMARSH  IN  THE 
PICTURE  GALLERIES 

THE  readers  of  this  miscellany  may,  perhaps,  have 
remarked  that  always,  at  the  May  season  and  the 
period  of  the  exhibitions,  our  eccentric  correspondent 
Titmarsh  seems  to  be  seized  with  a  double  fit  of  eccen- 
tricity, and  to  break  out  into  such  violent  fantastical 
gambols  as  might  cause  us  to  be  alarmed  did  we  not  know 
him  to  be  harmless,  and  induce  us  to  doubt  of  his  reason 
but  that  the  fit  is  generally  brief,  and  passes  off  after  the 
first  excitement  occasioned  by  visiting  the  picture  gal- 
leries. It  was  in  one  of  these  fits,  some  years  since,  that 
he  announced  in  this  Magazine  his  own  suicide,  which  we 
know  to  be  absurd,  for  he  has  drawn  many  hundred 
guineas  from  us  since: — on  the  same  occasion  he  de- 
scribed his  debts  and  sojourn  at  a  respectable  hotel,  in 
which  it  seems  he  has  never  set  his  foot.  But  these  hal- 
lucinations pass  away  with  May,  and  next  month  he  will, 
no  doubt,  be  calmer,  or,  at  least,  not  more  absurd  than 
usual.  Some  disappointments  occurring  to  himself,  and 
the  refusal  of  his  great  picture  of  "  Heliogabalus  "  in 
the  year  1803  (which  caused  his  retirement  from  prac- 
tice as  a  painter) ,  may  account  for  his  extreme  bitterness 
against  some  of  the  chief  artists  in  this  or  any  other 
school  or  country.  Thus  we  have  him  in  these  pages 
abusing  Raphael;  in  the  very  last  month  he  fell  foul  of 
Rubens,  and  in  the  present  paper  lie  actually  pooh-poohs 
Sir  Martin  Shee  and  some  of  the  Royal  Academy.    This 

478 


MAY  GAMBOLS  479 

is  too  much.  "  Cselum  ipsum,"  as  Horace  says,  "  peti- 
mus  stultitia."  But  we  will  quote  no  more  the  well- 
known  words  of  the  Epicurean  bard. 

We  only  add  that  we  do  not  feel  in  the  least  bound  by 
any  one  of  the  opinions  here  brought  f orw^ard,  from  most 
of  which,  except  where  the  writer  contradicts  himself 
and  so  saves  us  the  trouble,  we  cordially  dissent ;  and  per- 
haps the  reader  had  best  pass  on  to  the  next  article,  omit- 
ting all  perusal  of  this,  excepting,  of  course,  the  edi- 
torial notice  of— O.  Y. 

Jack  Straw's  Castle,  Hampstead  :  May  25. 
This  is  written  in  the  midst  of  a  general  desolation  and 
discouragement  of  the  honest  practitioners  who  dwell  in 
the  dingy  first-floors  about  Middlesex  Hospital  and 
Soho.  The  long-haired  ones  are  tearing  their  lanky 
locks;  the  velvet-coated  sons  of  genius  are  plunged  in 
despair;  the  law  has  ordered  the  suppression  of  Art- 
Unions,  and  the  wheel  of  Fortune  has  suddenly  and 
cruelly  been  made  to  stand  still.  When  the  dreadful 
news  came  that  the  kindly  harmless  Art-lottery  was  to 
be  put  an  end  to,  although  Derby-lotteries  are  adver- 
tised in  every  gin-shop  in  London,  and  every  ruffian  in 
the  City  may  gamble  at  his  leisure,  the  men  of  the  brush 
and  palette  convoked  a  tumultuous  meeting,  where, 
amidst  tears,  shrieks,  and  wrath,  the  cruelty  of  their  case 
was  debated.  Wyse  of  Waterford  calmly  presided  over 
the  stormy  bladder-squeezers,  the  insulted  wielders  of 
the  knife  and  maulstick.  Wyse  soothed  their  angry 
spirits  with  words  of  wisdom  and  hope.  He  stood  up  in 
the  assembly  of  the  legislators  of  the  land  and  pointed 
out  their  wrongs.  The  painters'  friend,  the  kind  old 
Lansdowne,  lifted  up  his  cordial  voice  among  the  peers 


480  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

of  England,  and  asked  for  protection  for  the  children  of 
Raphael  and  Apelles.  No  one  said  nay.  All  pitied  the 
misfortune  of  the  painters;  even  Lord  Brougham  was 
stilled  into  compassion,  and  the  voice  of  Vaux  was  only- 
heard  in  sobs. 

These  are  days  of  darkness,  but  there  is  hope  in  the 
vista;  the  lottery-subscription  lies  in  limbo,  but  it  shall 
be  released  therefrom  and  flourish,  exuberantly  revivi- 
fied, in  future  years.  Had  the  ruin  been  consummated, 
this  hand  should  have  withered  rather  than  have  at- 
tempted to  inscribe  jokes  concerning  it.  No,  Fraser  is 
the  artists'  friend,  their  mild  parent.  While  his  Royal 
Highness  Prince  Albert  dines  with  the  Academicians, 
the  rest  of  painters,  less  fortunate,  are  patronised  by  her 
Majesty  Regina. 

Yes,  in  spite  of  the  Art-Union  accident,  there  is  hope 
for  the  painters.  Sir  Martin  Archer  Shee  thinks  that 
the  Prince's  condescension  in  dining  with  the  Academy 
will  do  incalculable  benefit  to  the  art.  Henceforth  its 
position  is  assured  in  the  world.  This  august  patronage, 
the  President  says,  evincing  the  sympathy  of  the  higher 
classes,  must  awaken  the  interest  of  the  low:  and  the 
public  (the  ignorant  rogues!)  will  thus  learn  to  appre- 
ciate what  they  have  not  cared  for  hitherto.  Interested ! 
Of  course  they  will  be.  O  Academicians!  ask  the  public 
to  dinner,  and  you  will  see  how  much  interested  they 
will  be.  We  are  authorised  to  state  that  next  year  any 
person  who  will  send  in  his  name  will  have  a  cover  pro- 
vided; Trafalgar  Square  is  to  be  awned  in,  plates  are  to 
be  laid  for  250,000,  one  of  the  new  basins  is  to  be  filled 
with  turtle  and  the  other  with  cold  punch.  The  Presi- 
dent and  the  elite  are  to  sit  upon  Nelson's  pillar,  while 
rows  of  benches,  stretching  as  far  as  the  Union  Club, 


MAY  GAMBOLS  481 

Northumberland  House,  and  St.  INIartin's  Church,  will 
accommodate  the  \Tilgar.  jNIr.  Toole  is  to  have  a  speak- 
ing-trumpet;  and  a  twenty-four-pounder  to  be  dis- 
charged at  each  toast. 

There  are  other  symptoms  of  awakening  interest  in 
the  public  mind.  The  readers  of  newspapers  will  remark 
this  year  that  the  leaders  of  public  opinion  have  devoted 
an  unusually  large  space  and  print  to  reviews  of  the  fine 
arts.  They  have  been  employing  critics  who,  though 
they  contradict  each  other  a  good  deal,  are  yet  evidently 
better  acquainted  with  the  subject  than  critics  of  old 
used  to  be,  when  gentlemen  of  the  profession  were  in- 
structed to  report  on  a  fire,  or  an  Old  Bailej^  trial,  or  a 
Greek  play,  or  an  opera,  or  a  boxing-match,  or  a  picture 
gallery,  as  their  turn  came.  Read  now  the  Times,  the 
Chronicle,  the  Post  (especially  the  Post,  of  which  the 
painting  critiques  have  been  very  good),  and  it  will  be 
seen  that  the  critic  knows  his  business,  and  from  the 
length  of  his  articles  it  may  be  conjectured  that  the 
public  is  interested  in  knowing  what  he  has  to  say.  This 
is  all,  probably,  from  the  Prince  having  dined  at  the 
Academy.  The  nation  did  not  care  for  pictures  until 
then, — until  the  nobility  taught  us;  gracious  nobility! 
Above  all,  what  a  compliment  to  the  public ! 

As  one  looks  round  the  rooms  of  the  Royal  Academy, 
one  cannot  but  deplore  the  fate  of  the  poor  fellows  who 
have  been  speculating  upon  the  Art-Unions ;  and  yet  in 
the  act  of  grief  there  is  a  lurking  satisfaction.  The  poor 
fellows  can't  sell  their  pieces;  that  is  a  pity.  But  why 
did  the  poor  fellows  paint  such  fiddle-faddle  pictures? 
They  catered  for  the  bourgeois,  the  sly  rogues!  They 
know  honest  John  Bull's  taste,  and  simple  ad- 
miration of  namby  pamby,  and  so  they  supplied  him 


482  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

with  an  article  that  was  just  likely  to  suit  him. 
In  like  manner  savages  are  supplied  with  glass  beads; 
children  are  accommodated  with  toys  and  trash,  by 
dexterous  speculators  who  know  their  market.  Well, 
I  am  sorry  that  the  painting  speculators  have  had 
a  stop  put  to  their  little  venture,  and  that  the  ugly 
law  against  lotteries  has  stepped  in  and  seized  upon  the 
twelve  thousand  pounds,  which  was  to  furnish  many  a 
hungry  British  Raphael  with  a  coat  and  a  beefsteak. 
Many  a  Mrs.  Raphael,  who  was  looking  out  for  a  new 
dress,  or  a  trip  to  Margate  or  Boulogne  for  the  summer, 
must  forego  the  pleasure,  and  remain  in  dingy  Newman 
Street.  Many  little  ones  will  go  back  to  Turnham 
Green  academies  and  not  carry  the  amount  of  last  half- 
year's  bill  in  the  trunk ;  many  a  landlord  will  bully  about 
the  non-payment  of  the  rent;  and  a  vast  number  of 
frame-makers  will  look  wistfully  at  their  carving  and 
gilding  as  it  returns  after  the  exhibition  to  JNIr.  Tinto, 
Charlotte  Street,  along  with  poor  Tinto's  picture  from 
the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  that  he  made  sure  of  selling 
to  an  Art-Union  prizeman.  This  is  the  pathetic  side  of 
the  question.  ]VIy  heart  is  tender,  and  I  weep  for  the 
honest  painters  peering  dismally  at  the  twelve  thousand 
pounds  like  hungry  boys  do  at  a  tart-shop. 

But — here  stern  justice  interposes,  and  the  man  hav- 
ing relented,  the  critic  raises  his  inexorable  voice— but, 
I  say,  the  enemies  of  Art-Unions  have  had  some  reason 
for  their  complaints,  and  I  fear  it  is  too  true  that  the 
effect  of  those  institutions,  as  far  as  they  have  gone 
hitherto,  has  not  been  mightily  favourable  to  the  cause 
of  art.  One  day,  by  custom,  no  doubt,  the  public  taste 
will  grow  better,  and  as  the  man  who  begins  by  intoxicat- 
ing liimself  with  a  glass  of  gin  finishes  sometimes  by  eas- 


MAY  GAMBOLS  483 

ily  absorbing  a  bottle;  as  the  law  student,  who  at  first  is 
tired  with  a  chapter  of  Blackstone,  will  presently  swal- 
low j^ou  down  with  pleasure  a  whole  volume  of  Chitty; 
as  EDUCATION,  in  a  word,  advances,  it  is  humbty  to  be 
hoped  that  the  great  and  generous  British  public  will  not 
be  so  easily  satisfied  as  at  present,  and  will  ask  for  a 
better  article  for  its  money. 

Meanwhile,  their  taste  being  pitiable,  the  artists  sup- 
ply them  with  poor  stuff— pretty  cheap  tawdry  toys  and 
gimcracks  in  place  of  august  and  beautiful  objects  of 
art.  It  is  always  the  case.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the 
literary  men  are  a  bit  better.  Poor  fellows  of  the  pen 
and  pencil!  we  must  live.  The  public  likes  light  litera- 
ture and  w.e  write  it.  Here  am  I  writing  magazine 
jokes  and  follies,  and  why?  Because  the  public  like 
such,  will  purchase  no  other.  Otherwise,  as  INlr.  Nick- 
isson  and  all  who  are  acquainted  with  ]M.  A.  Titmarsh 
in  private  know,  my  real  inclinations  would  lead  me  to 
write  works  upon  mathematics,  geology,  and  chemistry, 
varying  them  in  my  lighter  hours  with  little  plaj^ful 
treatises  on  questions  of  political  economy,  epic  poems, 
and  essays  on  the  ^Eolic  digamma.  So,  in  fact,  these 
severe  rebukes  with  which  I  am  about  to  belabour  my 
neighbour  must  be  taken,  as  they  are  given,  in  a  humble 
and  friendly  spirit;  they  are  not  actuated  by  pride,  but 
by  deep  sympathy.  Just  as  we  read  in  holy  ]Mr.  New- 
man's life  of  Saint  Stephen  Harding,  that  it  was  the 
custom  among  the  godly  Cistercian  monks  (in  the  good 
old  times,  which  holy  Newman  would  restore)  to  assem- 
ble every  morning  in  full  chapter ;  and  there,  after  each 
monk  had  made  his  confession,  it  was  free  to— nay,  it 
was  strictly  enjoined  on— any  other  brother  to  rise  and 
say,  "  Brother  So-and-so  hath  not  told  all  his  sins ;  our 


484  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

dear  brother  has  forgotten  that  yesterday  he  ate  his  split- 
peas  with  too  much  gormandise;  "  or,  "  This  morning  he 
did  indecently  rejoice  over  his  water-gruel,"  or  what 
not — these  real  Christians  were  called  upon  to  inform, 
not  only  of  themselves,  but  to  be  informers  over  each 
other;  and,  the  information  being  given,  the  brother  in- 
formed against  thanked  his  brother  the  informer,  and 
laid  himself  down  on  the  desk,  and  was  flagellated  with 
gratitude.  Sweet  friends!  be  you  like  the  Cistercians! 
Brother  Michael  Angelo  is  going  to  inform  against  you. 
Get  ready  your  garments  and  prepare  for  flagellation. 
Brother  Michael  Angelo  is  about  to  lay  on  and  spare 
not. 

Brother  Michael  lifts  up  his  voice  against  the  young 
painters  collectively  in  the  first  place,  afterwards  indi- 
vidually, when  he  will  also  take  leave  to  tickle  them  with 
the  wholesome  stripes  of  the  flagellum.  In  the  first 
place,  then  (and  my  heart  is  so  tender  that,  rather  than 
begin  the  operation,  I  have  been  beating  about  the  bush 
for  more  than  a  page,  of  which  page  the  reader  is  cor- 
dially requested  to  omit  the  perusal,  as  it  is  not  the  least 
to  the  purpose),  I  say  that  the  young  painters  of  Eng- 
land, whose  uprise  this  Magazine  and  this  critic  were  the 
first  to  hail,  asserting  loudly  their  superiority  over  the 
pompous  old  sham  classical  big-wigs  of  the  Academy— 
the  young  painters  of  England  are  not  doing  their  duty. 
They  are  going  backwards,  or  rather,  they  are  flinging 
themselves  under  the  wheels  of  that  great  golden  Jug- 
gernaut of  an  Art-Union.  The  thought  of  the  money 
is  leading  them  astray;  they  are  poets  no  longer,  but 
money-hunters.  They  paint  down  to  the  level  of  the 
public  intelHgence,  rather  than  seek  to  elevate  the  public 
to  them.    Why  do  these  great  geniuses  fail  in  their  duty 


MAY  GAMBOLS  485 

of  instruction?  Why,  knowing  better  things,  do  they 
serve  out  such  awful  twaddle  as  we  have  from  them? 
Alas !  it  is  not  for  art  they  paint,  but  for  the  Art-Union. 

The  first  dear  brother  I  shall  take  the  liberty  to  re- 
quest to  get  ready  for  operation  is  brother  Charles  Land- 
seer.  Brother  Charles  has  sinned.  He  has  grievously 
sinned.  And  we  will  begin  with  this  miserable  sinner, 
and  administer  to  him  admonition  in  a  friendly,  though 
most  fierce  and  cutting  manner. 

The  subject  of  brother  Charles  Landseer's  crime  is 
this.  The  sinner  has  said  to  himself,  "  The  British  pub- 
lic likes  domestic  pieces.  They  will  have  nothing  but 
domestic  pieces.  I  will  give  them  one,  and  of  a  new  sort. 
Suppose  I  paint  a  picture  that  must  make  a  hit.  My 
picture  will  have  every  sort  of  interest.  It  shall  interest 
the  religious  public ;  it  shall  interest  the  domestic  public ; 
it  shall  interest  the  amateur  for  the  cleverness  of  its 
painting ;  it  shall  interest  little  boys  and  girls,  for  I  will 
introduce  no  end  of  animals,  camels,  monkeys,  elephants, 
and  cockatoos ;  it  shall  interest  sentimental  young  ladies, 
for  I  will  take  care  to  have  a  pretty  little  episode  for 
them.  I  will  take  the  town  by  storm,  in  a  word."  This 
is  what  I  conceive  was  passing  in  brother  Charles  Land- 
seer's sinful  soul  when  he  conceived  and  executed  his 
Noah's  ark  in  a  domestic  point  of  view. 

Noah  and  his  family  (with  some  supplemental  young 
children,  very  sweetly  painted)  are  seated  in  the  ark,  and 
a  port-hole  is  opened,  out  of  which  one  of  the  sons  is 
looking  at  the  now  peaceful  waters.  The  sunshine  en- 
ters the  huge  repository  of  the  life  of  the  world,  and  the 
dove  has  just  flown  in  with  an  olive-branch,  and  nestles 
in  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  daughters  of  Noah;  the  pa- 
triarch and  his  aged  partner  are  lifting  up  their  vener- 


486  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

able  eyes  in  thankfulness ;  the  children  stand  around,  the 
peaceful  labourer  and  the  brown  huntsman  each  testify- 
ing his  devotion  after  his  fashion.  The  animals  round 
about  participate  in  the  joyful  nature  of  the  scene,  their 
instinct  seems  to  tell  them  that  the  hour  of  their  deliver- 
ance is  near. 

There,  the  picture  is  described  romantically  and  in  the 
best  of  language.  Now  let  us  proceed  to  examine  the 
poetry  critically,  and  to  see  what  its  claims  are.  Well, 
the  ark  is  a  great  subject.  The  history  from  which  we 
have  our  account  of  it,  from  a  poet  surely  demands  a 
reverent  treatment;  a  blacksmith  roaring  from  the  desk 
of  a  conventicle  may  treat  it  familiarly,  but  an  educated 
artist  ought  surely  to  approach  such  a  theme  with  re- 
spect. The  point  here  is  only  urged  aesthetically.  As  a 
matter  of  taste,  then  ( and  the  present  humble  writer  has 
no  business  to  speak  on  any  other),  such  a  manner  of 
treating  the  subject  is  certainly  reprehensible.  The  ark 
is  vulgarised  here  and  reduced  to  the  proportions  of  a 
Calais  steamer.  The  passengers  are  rejoicing:  they  are 
glad  to  get  away.  Their  live  animals  are  about  them  no 
more  nor  less  sublime  than  so  many  cattle  or  horses  in 
loose  boxes.  The  parrots  perched  on  the  hoop  yonder 
have  as  little  signification  as  a  set  of  birds  in  a  cage  at 
the  Zoological  Gardens;  the  very  dove  becomes  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  pet  of  the  pretty  girl  represented 
in  the  centre  of  the  picture.  All  the  greatness  of  the 
subject  is  lost;  and,  putting  the  historical  nature  of  the 
personages  out  of  the  question,  they  have  little  more 
interest  than  a  group  of  any  emigrants  in  the  hold  of  a 
ship,  who  rouse  and  rally  at  the  sound  of  "  Land  ho! " 

Why,  if  all  great  themes  of  poetry  are  to  be  treated  in 
this  way,  the  art  would  be  easy.    We  might  have  Hector 


MAY  GAMBOLS  487 

shaving  himself  before  going  out  to  fight  Achilles,  as, 
undoubtedly,  the  Trojan  hero  did;  Priam  in  a  cotton 
nightcap  asleep  in  a  four-poster  on  the  night  of  the  sack  of 
Troy,  Hecuba,  of  course,  by  his  side,  with  curl-papers,  and 
her  touj'  de  tete  on  the  toilet-glass.  We  might  have  Dido's 
maid  coming  after  her  mistress  in  the  shower  with  pat- 
tens and  an  umbrella;  or  Cleopatra's  page  guttling 
the  figs  in  the  basket  which  had  brought  the  asp  that 
killed  the  mistress  of  Antony.  Absurd  trivialities,  or 
pretty  trivialities,  are  nothing  to  the  question;  those  I 
have  adduced  here  are  absurd,  but  they  are  just  as  poet- 
ical as  prettiness,  not  a  whit  less  degrading  and  common- 
place. No  painter  has  a  right  to  treat  great  historical 
subjects  in  such  a  fashion;  and  though  the  public  are 
sure  to  admire,  and  young  ladies,  in  raptures,  look  on  at 
the  darling  of  a  dove,  and  little  boys  in  delight  cry, 
"Look,  papa,  at  the  parroquets!" — "Law,  ma,  M^hat 
big  trunks  the  elephants  have! "  it  yet  behoves  the  critic 
to  say  this  is  an  unpoetical  piece,  and  severely  to  repre- 
hend the  unhappy  perpetrator  thereof. 

I  know  brother  Charles  will  appeal.  I  know  it  will 
be  pleaded  in  his  favour  that  the  picture  is  capitally 
painted,  some  of  the  figures  very  pretty;  two — that  of 
the  old  woman  and  the  boy  looking  out — quite  grand  in 
drawing  and  colour ;  the  ^^icture  charming  for  its  silvery 
tone  and  agreeable  pleasantry  of  colour.  All  this  is  true. 
But  he  has  sinned,  he  has  greatly  sinned;  let  him  ac- 
knowledge his  fault  in  the  presence  of  the  chapter,  and 
receive  the  customary  and  wholesome  reward  thereof. 

Frater  Redgrave  is  the  next  malefactor  whose  sins 
deserve  a  reprobation.  In  the  namby-pamby  line  his 
errors  are  very  sad.  Has  he  not  been  already  warned  in 
this  very  miscellany  of  his  propensity  to  small  senti- 


488  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

ment?  Has  lie  corrected  himself  of  that  grievous  ten- 
dency? No:  his  weakness  grows  more  and  more  upon 
him,  and  he  is  now  more  sinful  than  ever.  One  of  his 
pictures  is  taken  from  the  most  startling  lyric  in  our 
language,  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  a  song  as  bitter  and 
manly  as  it  is  exquisitely  soft  and  tender,  a  song  of 
which  the  humour  draws  tears/ 

]Mr.  Redgrave  has  illustrated  everything  except  the 
humour,  the  manliness,  and  the  bitterness  of  the  song. 
He  has  only  depicted  the  tender  good-natured  part  of  it. 
It  is  impossible  to  quarrel  with  the  philanthrophj^^  of  the 
painter.  His  shirt-maker  sits  by  her  little  neat  bed, 
work,  working  away.  You  may  see  how  late  it  is,  for 
the  candle  is  nearly  burnt  out,  the  clock  (capital  poetic 
notion!)  says  what  o'clock  it  is,  the  grey-streaked  dawn 
is  rising  over  the  opposite  house  seen  through  the  cheer- 
less casement,  and  where  (from  a  light  which  it  has  in 
its  window)  you  may  imagine  that  another  poor  shirt- 
maker  is  toiling  too.  The  one  before  us  is  pretty,  pale, 
and  wan;  she  turns  up  the  whites  of  her  fine  fatigued 
eyes  to  the  little  ceiling.  She  is  ill,  as  the  artist  has 
shown  us  by  a  fine  stroke  of  genius — a  parcel  of  medi- 
cine-bottles on  the  mantelpiece!  The  picture  is  care- 
fully and  cleverly  painted — extremely  popular — gazed 
at  with  vast  interest  by  most  spectators.  Is  it,  however, 
a  poetical  subject?  Yes,  Hood  has  shown  that  it  can 
be  made  one,  but  by  surprising  turns  of  thought  brought 
to  bear  upon  it,  strange,  terrible,  unexpected  lights  of 
humour  which  he  has  flung  upon  it.  And,  to  "  trump  " 
this  tremendous  card,  Mr.  Redgrave  gives  us  this  pic- 
ture; his  points  being  the  clock,  wliich  tells  the  time  of 

'  How  is  it  that  none  of  the  papers  have  noticed  the  astonishing  poem  by 
Mr.  Hood  in  the  May  number  of  his  magazine,  to  which  our  language  con- 
tains no  i)arallel?— M.  A.  T. 


MAY  GAJMBOLS  489 

day,  the  vials  which  show  the  poor  girl  takes  physic,  and 
such  other  vast  labours  of  intellect ! 

]Mr.  Redgrave's  other  picture,  the  "  INIarriage  JNIorn- 
ing,"  is  also  inspired  by  that  milk-and-water  of  human 
kindness,  the  flavour  of  which  is  so  insipid  to  the  roast- 
beef  intellect.  This  is  a  scene  of  a  marriage  morning; 
the  bride  is  taking  leave  of  her  mamma  after  the  cere- 
mony, and  that  amiable  lady,  reclining  in  an  easy-chair, 
is  invoking  benedictions  upon  the  parting  couple,  and 
has  a  hand  of  her  daughter  and  her  son-in-law  clasped 
in  each  of  hers.  She  is  smiling  sadly,  restraining  her 
natural  sorrow,  Avhich  will  break  out  so  soon  as  the  post- 
chaise  you  see  through  the  A\'indow,  and  on  which  the 
footman  is  piling  the  nuptial  luggage,  shall  have  driven 
off  to  Salt  Hill,  or  Rose  Cottage,  Richmond,  which  I 
recommend.  The  bride's  father,  a  venerable  bald-headed 
gentleman,  with  a  most  benignant,  though  slow-coachish 
look,  is  trying  to  console  poor  Anna  JNIaria,  the  unmar- 
ried sister,  who  is  losing  the  companion  of  her  youth. 
Never  mind,  Anna  jNIaria,  mv  dear,  your  turn  will  come 
too;  there  is  a  young  gentleman  making  a  speech  in  the 
parlour  to  the  health  of  the  new-married  pair,  who,  I 
lay  a  wager,  will  be  struck  by  your  fine  eyes,  and  be  for 
serving  you  as  your  sister  has  been  treated.  This  small 
fable  is  worked  out  with  great  care  in  a  picture  in  which 
there  is  much  clever  and  conscientious  painting,  from 
which,  however,  I  must  confess,  I  derive  little  pleasure. 
The  sentiment  and  colour  of  the  picture  somehow  coin- 
cide; the  eye  rests  upon  a  variety  of  neat  tints  of  pale 
drab,  pale  green,  pale  brown,  pale  puce  colour,  of  a 
sickly  warmth,  not  pleasant  to  the  eye.  The  drawing  is 
feeble,  the  expression  of  the  faces  j^retty,  but  lackadaisi- 
cal.   The  penance  I  would  order  JNIr.  Redgrave  should 


490  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

be  a  pint  of  port-wine  to  be  taken  daily,  and  a  devilled 
kidney  every  morning  for  breakfast  before  beginning 
to  paint. 

A  little  of  the  devil,  too,  would  do  Mr.  Frank  Stone 
no  harm.  He,  too,  is  growing  dangerously  sentimental. 
His  picture,  with  a  quotation  from  Horace,  "  Maecenas 
atavis  edite  regibus,"  represents  a  sort  of  game  of  tender 
cross-purposes,  very  difficult  to  describe  in  print.  Sup- 
pose two  lads,  Jocky  and  Tommy,  and  two  lasses,  Jenny 
and  Jessamy.    They  are  placed  thus:  — 


Now  Jocky  is  making  love  to  Jenny  in  an  easy  ofF-hand 
sort  of  way,  and  though,  or,  perhaps,  because  he  doesn't 
care  for  her  much,  is  evidently  delighting  the  young 
woman.  She  looks  round,  with  a  pleased  smile  on  her 
fresh  plump  cheeks,  and  turns  slightly  towards  heaven 
a  sweet  little  retrousse  nose,  and  twiddles  her  fingers 
(most  exquisitely  these  hands  are  drawn  and  painted, 
by  the  way)  in  the  most  contented  way.  But,  ah!  how 
little  does  she  heed  Tommy,  who,  standing  behind  Jocky, 
reclining  against  a  porch,  is  looking  and  longing  for 
this  liglit-hearted  Jenny  I  And,  ohl  why  does  Tommy 
cast  such  sheep's  eyes  upon  Jenny,  when  by  her  side  sits 
Jessamy,  the  tender  and  romantic,  the  dark-eyed  and 
raven-haired  being,  whose  treasures  of  affection  are 
flung  at  heedless  Tommy's  feet?  All  the  world  is  inter- 
ested in  Jessamy;  her  face  is  beautiful,  her  look  of  de- 
spairing love  is  so  exquisitely  tender,  that  it  touches 
every  spectator ;  and  the  ladies  are  unanimous  in  wonder- 


MAY  GAMBOLS  491 

ing  how  Tommy  can  throw  himself  away  upon  that 
simpering  Jenny,  when  such  a  superior  creature  as 
Jessamy  is  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  But  such  is  the 
way  of  the  world,  and  Tommy  will  marry,  simply  be- 
cause everybody  tells  him  not. 

Thus  far  for  the  sentiment  of  the  picture.  The  de- 
tails are  very  good ;  there  is  too  much  stippling  and  show 
of  finish,  perhaps,  in  the  handling,  and  the  painting  might 
have  been  more  substantial  and  lost  nothing.  But  the  col- 
our is  good,  the  group  very  well  composed,  and  the  vari- 
ety of  expression  excellent.  There  is  great  passion,  as 
well  as  charming  delicacy,  in  the  disappointed  maiden's 
face ;  much  fine  appreciation  of  character  in  the  easy  smil- 
ing triumph  of  the  rival ;  and,  although  this  sentence  was 
commenced  with  the  express  determination  of  rating 
]Mr.  Stone  soundly,  lo!  it  is  finished  without  a  word  of 
blame.  Well,  let's  vent  our  anger  on  the  dog.  That  is 
very  bad,  and  seems  to  have  no  more  bones  than  an  apple- 
dumpling.  It  is  only  because  the  artist  has  been  paint- 
ing disappointed  lovers  a  great  deal  of  late,  that  one  is 
disposed  to  grumble,  not  at  the  work,  but  at  the  want 
of  variety  of  subject. 

As  a  sentimental  picture,  the  best  and  truest,  to  my 
taste,  is  that  bv  ]Mr.  Webster,  the  "  Portraits  of  ]Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Webster,"  painted  to  celebrate  their  fiftieth  wed- 
ding-day. Such  a  charming  old  couple  were  never  seen. 
There  is  delightful  grace,  sentiment,  and  purity  in  these 
two  gentle  kindly  heads ;  much  more  sentiment  and  grace 
than  even  in  INIr.  Eastlake's  "  Heloise,"  a  face  which  the 
artist  has  painted  over  and  over  again;  a  beautiful 
woman,  but  tiresome,  unearthly,  unsubstantial,  and  no 
more  like  Heloise  than  like  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 
If  the  late  ]Mr.  Pope's  epistle  be  correct,  Eloisa  was  a 


492  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

most  unmistakable  woman;  this  is  a  substanceless,  pas- 
sionless, solemn,  mj^stical  apparition;  but  I  doubt  if  a 
woman  be  not  the  more  poetical  being  of  the  two. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  sentimental  pictures.  Mon- 
sieur Delaroche's  great  "  Holy  Family  "  must  be  men- 
tioned here;  and,  if  there  is  reason  to  quarrel  with  the 
unsatisfactory  nature  of  English  sentiment,  in  truth  it 
appears  that  the  French  are  not  much  better  provided 
with  the  high  poetical  quality.  This  picture  has  all  the 
outside  of  poetry,  all  the  costume  of  religion,  all  the 
prettiness  and  primness  of  the  new  German  dandy -piet- 
istical  school.  It  is  an  agreeable  compound  of  Correggio 
and  Raphael,  with  a  strong  dash  of  Overbeck;  it  is 
painted  as  clean  and  pretty  as  a  tulip  on  a  dessert-plate, 
the  lines  made  out  so  neatly  that  none  can  mistake  them ; 
the  drawing  good,  the  female  face  as  pretty  and  demure 
as  can  be,  her  drapery  of  spotless  blue,  and  the  man's  of 
approved  red,  the  infant  as  pink  as  strawberries  and 
cream,  every  leaf  of  the  tree  sweetly  drawn,  and  the 
trunk  of  the  most  delicate  dove-coloured  grey.  All 
these  merits  the  picture  has;  it  is  a  well-appointed 
picture.  But  is  that  all?  Is  that  enough  to  make 
a  poet?  There  are  lines  in  the  Oxford  prize  poems 
that  are  smooth  as  Pope's;  and  it  is  notorious  that,  for 
colouring,  there  is  no  painting  like  the  Chinese.  But 
I  hope  the  French  artists  have  better  men  springing  up 
among  them  than  the  President  of  the  French  Academy 
at  Rome. 

Biard,  the  Hogarthian  painter,  whose  slave-trade  pic- 
ture was  so  noble,  has  sent  us  a  couple  of  pieces,  which 
both,  in  their  way,  possess  merit.  The  one  is  an  Arabian 
caravan  moving  over  a  brick-dust-coloured  desert,  under 
a  red  arid  sky.    The  i)icture  is  lifelike,  and  so  far  poetical 


MAY   GAMBOLS  493 

that  it  seems  to  tell  the  truth.  Then  there  is  a  steam- 
boat disaster,  with  every  variety  of  sea-sickness,  laugh- 
ably painted.  Shuddering  soldiery,  sprawling  dandies, 
Englishmen,  Savoyards,  guitars,  lovers,  monkeys,  —  a 
dreadful  confusion  of  qualmish  people,  whose  agonies 
will  put  the  most  misanthropic  observer  into  good-hu- 
mour. Biard's  "  Havre  Packet "  is  much  more  praise- 
worthy in  my  mind  than  Delaroche's  "Holy  Family;" 
for  I  deny  the  merit  of  failing  greatly  in  pictures — the 
great  merit  is  to  succeed.  There  is  no  greater  error, 
surely,  than  that  received  dictum  of  the  ambitious  to 
aim  at  high  things ;  it  is  best  to  do  what  you  mean  to  do : 
better  to  kill  a  crow  than  to  miss  an  eagle. 

As  the  French  artists  are  sending  in  their  works  from 
across  the  water,  wh}^  for  the  honour  of  England,  will 
not  some  of  our  painters  let  the  Parisians  know  that  here, 
too,  are  men  whose  genius  is  worthy  of  appreciation? 
They  may  be  the  best  draughtsmen  in  the  world,  but 
they  have  no  draughtsman  like  JMaclise,  they 
have  no  colourist  like  Etty,  they  have  no  painter  like 
INIuLREADY,  above  all,  whose  name  I  beg  the  printer  to 
place  in  the  largest  capitals,  and  to  surround  with 
a  wreath  of  laurels.  ]Mr.  Mulready  was  crowned  in 
this  INIagazine  once  before.  Here  again  he  is  pro- 
claimed. It  looks  like  extravagance,  or  flatter}^  for  the 
blushing  critic  to  tell  his  real  mind  about  the  "  Whisto- 
nian  Controversy." 

And  yet,  as  the  truth  must  be  told,  why  not  say  it 
now  at  once?  I  believe  this  to  be  one  of  the  finest  cab- 
inet pictures  in  the  world.  It  seems  to  me  to  possess  an 
assemblage  of  excellences  so  rare,  to  be  in  drawing  so 
admirable,  in  expression  so  fine,  in  finish  so  exquisite,  in 
composition  so  beautiful,  in  humour  and  beauty  of  ex- 


494  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

pression  so  delightful,  that  I  can't  but  ask  where  is  a 
good  picture  if  this  be  not  one?  And,  in  enumerating 
all  the  above  perfections,  I  find  I  have  forgotten  the 
greatest  of  all,  the  colour;  it  is  quite  original  this,— 
brilliant,  rich,  astonishingly  luminous,  and  intense.  The 
pictures  of  Van  Eyck  are  not  more  brilliant  in  tone  than 
this  magnificent  combination  of  blazing  reds,  browns, 
and  purples,  I  know  of  no  scheme  of  colour  like  it,  and 
heartily  trust  that  time  will  preserve  it;  when  this  little 
picture,  and  some  of  its  fellows,  will  be  purchased  as 
eagerly  as  a  Hemlinck  or  a  Gerard  Douw  is  bought  now- 
adays. If  Mr.  Mulready  has  a  mind  to  the  Grand 
Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  he  has  but  to  send  this 
picture  to  Paris  next  year,  and,  with  the  recommenda- 
tion of  Frasers  Magazine,  the  affair  is  settled.  Mean- 
while it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  the  artist  (although 
his  work  will  fetch  ten  times  as  much  money  a  hundred 
years  hence)  has  not  been  ill  rewarded,  as  times  go,  for 
his  trouble  and  genius. 

We  have  another  great  and  original  colourist  among 
us,  as  luscious  as  Rubens,  as  rich  almost  as  Titian — Mr. 
Etty;  and  every  year  the  exhibition  sparkles  with  mag- 
nificent little  canvases,  the  works  of  this  indefatigable 
strenuous  admirer  of  nude  Beauty.  The  form  is  not 
quite  so  sublime  as  the  colour  in  this  artist's  paintings; 
the  female  figure  is  often  rather  too  expansively  treated, 
it  swells  here  and  there  to  the  proportions  of  the  Caff  ra- 
rian,  rather  than  the  Medicean,  Venus;  but,  in  colour, 
little  can  be  conceived  that  is  more  voluptuously  beau- 
tiful. This  year  introduces  to  us  one  of  the  artist's 
noblest  compositions,  a  classical  and  pictorial  orgy,  as  it 
were, — a  magnificent  vision  of  rich  colours  and  beautiful 
forms,— a  grand  feast  of  sensual  poetry.     The  verses 


MAY   GAMBOLS  495 

from  "  Comus,"  which  the  painter  has  taken  to  illustrate, 
have  the  same  character: — 

"All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree, 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers, 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  spring. 
Beds  of  hyacinths  and  roses, 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes. 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound, 
In  slumber  soft  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  Queen ; 
But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen. 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced, 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  entranced." 

It  is  a  dream  rather  than  a  reality,  the  words  and 
images  purposely  indistinct  and  incoherent.  In  the 
same  way  the  painter  has  made  the  beautiful  figures 
sweep  before  us  in  a  haze  of  golden  sunshine.  This  pic- 
ture is  one  of  a  series  to  be  painted  in  fresco,  and  to  deco- 
rate the  walls  of  a  summer-house  in  the  gardens  of  Buck- 
ingham Palace,  for  which  edifice  Mr.  Maclise  and  Mr. 
Leslie  have  also  made  paintings. 

That  of  Mr.  Leslie's  is  too  homely.  He  is  a  prose 
painter.  His  kind  buxom  young  lass  has  none  of  the 
look  of  Milton's  lady,  that  charming  compound  of  the 
saint  and  the  fine  lady— that  sweet  impersonation  of  the 
chivalric  mythology— an  angel,  but  with  her  sixteen 
quarterings— a  countess  descended  from  the  skies.  Les- 
lie's lady  has  no  such  high  breeding,  the  Comus  above 
her  looks  as  if  he  might  revel  on  ale;  a  rustic  seducer, 


496  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

with  an  air  of  rude  hobnailed  health.  Nor  are  the 
demons  and  fantastic  figures  introduced  imaginative 
enough ;  they  are  fellows  with  masks  from  Covent  Gar- 
den. Comj^are  the  two  figures  at  the  sides  of  the  picture 
with  the  two  Cupids  of  Mr.  Etty.  In  the  former  there 
is  no  fancy.  The  latter  are  two  flowers  of  j)oetry ;  there 
are  no  words  to  characterise  those  two  delicious  little  fig- 
ures, no  more  than  to  describe  a  little  air  of  Mozart, 
which,  once  heard,  remains  with  you  for  ever;  or  a  new 
flower,  or  a  phrase  of  Keats  or  Tennyson,  which  blooms 
out  upon  you  suddenly,  astonishing  as  much  as  it  pleases. 
Well,  in  endeavouring  to  account  for  his  admiration, 
the  critic  pumps  for  words  in  vain ;  if  he  uses  such  as  he 
finds,  he  runs  the  risk  of  being  considered  intolerably 
pert  and  afl'ected;  silent  pleasure,  therefore,  best  be- 
seems him ;  but  this  I  know,  that  were  my  humble  recom- 
mendations attended  to  at  Court,  when  the  pictures  are 
put  in  the  pleasure-house,  her  sacred  IMajesty,  giving  a 
splendid  banquet  to  welcome  them  and  the  painter, 
should  touch  Mr.  Etty  on  the  left  shoulder  and  say, 
*'  Rise,  my  knight  of  the  Bath,  for  painting  the  left-hand 
Cupid;"  and  the  Emperor  of  Russia  (being  likewise 
present)  should  tap  him  on  the  right  shoulder,  exclaim- 
ing, "  Rise,  my  knight  of  the  Eagle,  for  the  right-hand 
Cupid." 

Mr.  Maclise's  "  Comus  "  picture  is  wonderful  for  the 
variet)^  of  its  design,  and  has,  too,  a  high  poetry  of  its 
own.  All  the  figures  are  here  still  and  solemn  as  in  a 
tableau;  the  lady  still  on  her  unearthly  snaky  chair, 
Sabrina  still  stooping  over  her.  On  one  side  the  brothers, 
and  op])osite  the  solemn  attendant  spirit;  round  these 
interminable  groups  and  vistas  of  fairy  beings,  twining 
in  a  thousand  attitudes  of  grace,  and  sparkling  white  and 


MAY   GAMBOLS  497 

bloodless  against  a  leaden  blue  sky.  It  is  the  most  poeti- 
cal of  the  artist's  pictures,  the  most  extraordinary  exhi- 
bition of  his  proper  skill.  Is  it  true  that  the  artists  are 
only  to  receive  three  hundred  guineas  apiece  for  these 
noble  compositions?  Why,  a  print-seller  would  give 
more,  and  artists  should  not  be  allowed  to  paint  simply 
for  the  honour  of  decorating  a  roj^al  summer-house. 

Among  the  poetical  pictures  of  the  exhibition  should 
be  mentioned  with  especial  praise  ]\Ir.  Cope's  delightful 
"  Charity,"  than  the  female  figures  in  which  Raphael 
scarce  painted  anj^thing  more  charmingly  beautiful. 
And  ]Mr.  Cope  has  this  merit,  that  his  work  is  no  prim 
imitation  of  the  stiff  old  Cimabue  and  Giotto  manner, 
no  aping  of  the  crisp  draperies  and  hard  outlines  of  the 
missal  illuminations,  without  which  the  religious  artist 
would  have  us  believe  religious  expression  is  impossible. 
It  is  pleasant  after  seeing  the  wretched  caricatures  of 
old-world  usages  which  stare  us  in  the  face  in  every  quar- 
ter of  London  now — little  dumpy  Saxon  chapels  built  in 
raw  brick,  spick  and  span  handhocc  churches  of  the 
pointed  Xorman  style  for  Cockneys  in  zephyr  coats  to 
assemble  in,  new  old  painted  windows  of  the  twelfth 
century,  tessellated  pavements  of  the  Byzantine  school, 
gimcrack  imitations  of  the  Golden  Legend  printed  with 
red  letters,  and  crosses,  and  quaint  figures  stolen  out  of 
Norman  missals — to  find  artists  aiming  at  the  Beautiful 
and  Pure  without  thinking  it  necessary  to  resort  to  these 
paltry  archaological  quackeries,  which  have  no  Faith,  no 
Truth,  no  Life  in  them ;  but  which  give  us  ceremony  in 
lieu  of  reality,  and  insist  on  forms  as  if  they  were  the 
conditions  of  belief. 

Lest  the  reader  should  misunderstand  the  cause  of 
this  anger,  we  beg  him  to  take  the  trouble  to  cross  Pall 


498  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

]Mall  to  Saint  James's  Street,  where  objects  of  art  are 
likewise  exhibited;  he  will  see  the  reason  of  our  wrath. 
Here  are  all  the  ornamental  artists  of  England  sending 
in  their  works,  and  what  are  they?— All  imitations.  The 
Alhambra  here;  the  Temple  Church  there ;  here  a  Gothic 
saint;  yonder  a  Saxon  altar-rail;  farther  on  a  sprawling 
rococo  of  Louis  XV.;  all  worked  neatly  and  cleverly 
enough,  but  with  no  originality,  no  honesty  of  thought. 
The  twelfth  centurj^'  revived  in  Mr.  Crockford's  bazaar, 
forsooth!  with  examples  of  every  century  except  our 
own.  It  would  be  worth  while  for  someone  to  write  an 
essay,  showing  how  astonishingly  Sir  Walter  Scott  ^  has 
influenced  the  world;  how  he  changed  the  character  of 
novelists,  then  of  historians,  whom  he  brought  from  their 
philosophy  to  the  study  of  pageantry  and  costume :  how 
the  artists  then  began  to  fall  back  into  the  middle  ages 
and  the  architects  to  follow;  until  now  behold  we  have 
Mr.  NewTnan  and  his  congregation  of  Littlemore  march- 
ing out  with  taper  and  crosier,  and  falling  down  to  wor- 
ship Saint  Willibald,  and  Saint  Winnibald,  and  Saint 
Walberga  the  Saxon  virgin.  But  Mr.  Cope's  picture  is 
leading  the  reader  rather  farther  than  a  critique  about 
exhibitions  has  any  right  to  divert  him,  and  let  us  walk 
soberly  back  to  Trafalgar  Square. 

Remark  the  beautiful  figures  of  the  children  in  Mr. 
Cope's  picture  (276),  the  fainting  one,  and  the  golden- 
haired  infant  at  the  gate.  It  is  a  noble  and  touching 
Scripture  illustration.  The  artist's  other  picture,  "  Gen- 
evieve," is  not  so  successful ;  the  faces  seem  to  have  been 
painted  from  a  dirty  palette,  the  evening  tints  of  the  sky 
are  as  smokv  as  a  sunset  in  Saint  James's  Park;   the 

'  Or  more  properly  Goethe.  "  Goetz  von  Berlichinfrcn  "  was  the  father  of 
the  Scottish  romances,  and  Scott  remained  constant  to  that  mode,  while  the 
greater  artist  tried  a  thousand  others. 


MAY   GAMBOLS  499 

composition  unpleasant,  and  not  enough  to  fill  the  sur- 
face of  canvas. 

Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  The  Trial  of  the  Seven 
Bishops "  is  painted  with  better  attention  to  costume 
than  most  English  painters  are  disposed  to  pay.  The 
characters  in  our  artists'  history-pieces,  as  indeed  on  our 
theatres,  do  not  look  commonly  accustomed  to  the  dresses 
which  thev  assume ;  wear  them  awkwardly,  take  liberties 
of  alteration  and  adjustment,  and  spoil  thereby  the  truth 
of  the  delineation.  The  French  artists,  on  the  canvas  or 
the  boards,  understand  this  branch  of  their  art  much  bet- 
ter. Look  at  jNIonsieur  Biard's  "  Mecca  Pilgrims,"  how 
carefully  and  accurately  they  are  attired;  or  go  to  the 
French  play  and  see  Cartigny  in  a  Hogarthian  dress.  He 
wears  it  as  though  he  had  been  born  a  hundred  years  back 
— looks  the  old  marquess  to  perfection.  In  this  atten- 
tion to  dress  Mr.  Herbert's  picture  is  very  praiseworthy ; 
the  men  are  quite  at  home  in  their  quaint  coats  and  peri- 
wigs of  James  II. 's  time;  the  ladies  at  ease  in  their  stiff 
long-waisted  gowns,  their  fans,  and  their  queer  caps  and 
patches.  And  the  picture  is  pleasing  from  the  extreme 
brightness  and  cleanliness  of  the  painting.  All  looks  as 
neat  and  fresh  as  Sam  Pepys  when  he  turned  out  in  his 
new  suit,  his  lady  in  her  satin  and  brocade.  But  here 
the  praise  must  stop.  The  great  concourse  of  people 
delineated,  the  bishops  and  the  jury,  the  judges  and  the 
sheriffs,  the  halberdiers  and  the  fine  ladies,  seem  very 
little  interested  in  the  transaction  in  which  they  are  en- 
gaged, and  look  as  if  they  were  assembled  rather  for 
show  than  business.  Nor,  indeed,  is  the  artist  much  in 
fault.  Painters  have  not  fair-play  in  these  parade  pic- 
tures. It  is  only  with  us  that  Reform-banquets,  or  views 
of  the  House  of  Lords  at  the  passing  of  the  Slopperton 


500  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Railway  Bill,  or  Coronation  Processions,  obtain  favour; 
in  which  vast  numbers  of  public  characters  are  grouped 
unreally  together,  and  politics  are  made  to  give  an  in- 
terest to  art. 

Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  Sir  Thomas  More  and  his 
Daughter  watching  from  the  Prisoner's  Room  in  the 
Tower  four  INIonks  led  away  to  Execution,"  is  not  the 
most  elaborate,  perhaps,  but  the  very  best  of  this  paint- 
er's works.  It  is  full  of  grace,  and  sentiment,  and 
religious  unction.  You  see  that  the  painter's  heart  is  in 
the  scenes  which  he  represents.  The  countenances  of 
the  two  figures  are  finely  conceived ;  the  sorrowful  anx- 
ious beauty  of  the  daughter's  face,  the  resigned  humility 
of  the  martyr  at  her  side,  and  the  accessories  of  proper- 
ties of  the  pious  little  drama  are  cleverly  and  poetically 
introduced;  such  as  mystic  sentences  of  hope  and  trust 
inscribed  by  former  sufFerei«s  on  the  walls,  the  prisoner's 
rosary  and  book  of  prayers  to  the  Virgin  that  lie  on  his 
bed.  These  types  and  emblems  of  the  main  story  are 
not  obtixided,  but  serve  to  increase  the  interest  of  the 
action;  just  as  you  hear  in  a  concerted  piece  of  music  a 
single  instrument  playing  its  little  plaintive  part  alone, 
and  yet  belonging  to  the  whole. 

If  you  want  to  see  a  picture  where  costume  is  not  rep- 
resented, behold  Mr.  Lauder's  "  Claverhouse  ordering 
Morton  to  Execution."  There  sits  Claverhouse  in  the 
centre  in  a  Kean  wig  and  ringlets,  such  as  was  never 
worn  in  any  age  of  this  world,  except  at  the  theatre  in 
1816,  and  he  scowls  with  a  true  melodramatic  ferocity; 
and  lie  lifts  a  signpost  of  a  finger  towards  Morton,  who 
forthwitli  begins  to  writhe  and  struggle  into  an  attitude 
in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  subordinate,  cuirassed,  buff- 
coated  gentry.     Morton  is  represented  in  tights,  slip- 


MAY  GAMBOLS  501 

pers,  and  a  tunic;  something  after  the  fashion  of 
Retzsch's  figures  in  "Faust"  (which  are  refinements  of 
costumes  worn  a  centmy  and  a  half  before  the  days  when 
Charles  disported  at  Tillietudlem)  ;  and  he,  too,  must 
proceed  to  scowl  and  frown  "  with  a  flashing  eye  and  a 
distended  nostril,"  as  they  say  in  the  novels,— as  Gom- 
ersal  scowls  at  Widdicomb  before  the  combat  between 
those  two  chiefs  begins;  and  while  they  are  measuring 
each  other  according  to  the  stage  wont,  from  the  toe  of 
the  yellow  boot  up  to  the  tip  of  the  stage-wig.  There 
is  a  tragedy  heroine  in  Mr.  Lauder's  picture,  striking 
her  attitude,  too,  to  complete  the  scene.  It  is  entirely 
unnatural,  theatrical,  of  the  Davidgian,  nay,  Richard- 
sonian  drama,  and  all  such  attempts  at  effect  must  be 
reprehended  by  the  stern  critic.  When  such  a  cool  prac- 
titioner as  Claverhouse  ordered  a  gentleman  to  be  shot, 
he  would  not  put  himself  into  an  attitude :  when  such  a 
quiet  gentleman  as  INIorton  received  the  unpleasant  com- 
munication in  the  midst  of  a  company  of  grenadiers  who 
must  overpower  him,  and  of  ladies  to  whom  his  resist- 
ance would  be  unpleasant,  he  would  act  like  a  man  and 
go  out  quietly,  not  stop  to  rant  and  fume  like  a  fellow 
in  a  booth.  I  beheve  it  is  in  Mr.  Henningsen's  book  that 
there  is  a  story  of  Zumalacarreguy,  Don  Carlos's  Dun- 
dee, who,  sitting  at  the  table  with  a  Christino  prisoner, 
smoking  cigars  and  playing  piquet  very  quietly,  received 
a  communication  which  he  handed  over  to  the  Christino. 
"  Your  people,"  says  he,  "  have  shot  one  of  my  officers, 
and  I  have  promised  reprisals;  I  am  sorry  to  say,  my 
dear  general,  that  I  must  execute  you  in  twenty  min- 
utes!" And  so  the  two  gentlemen  finished  their  game 
at  piquet,  and  parted  company— the  one  to  inspect  his 
lines,  the  other  for  the  courtyard  hard  by,  where  a  file 


502  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

of  grenadiers  was  waiting  to  receive  his  excellency — with 
mutual  politeness  and  regret.  It  was  the  fortune  of 
war.  There  was  no  help  for  it ;  no  need  of  ranting  and 
stamping,  which  would  ill  become  any  person  of  good 
breeding. 

The  Scotch  artists  have  a  tragic  taste ;  and  we  should 
mention  with  especial  praise  JNIr.  Duncan's  picture  with 
the  agreeable  epigraph,  "  She  set  the  bairn  on  the  ground 
and  tied  up  his  head,  and  straighted  his  body,  and 
covered  him  with  her  plaid,  and  laid  down  and  wept  over 
him."  The  extract  is  from  Walker's  "  Life  of  Peden ; " 
the  martyrdom  was  done  on  the  body  of  a  boy  by  one  of 
those  bloody  troopers  whom  we  have  seen  in  Mr.  Laud- 
er's picture  carrying  off  poor  shrieking  JNIorton.  Mr. 
Duncan's  picture  is  very  fine,— dark,  rich,  and  deep  in 
sentiment ;  the  woman  is  painted  with  some  of  Rubens's 
swelling  lines  (such  as  may  be  seen  in  some  of  his  best 
]Magdalens ) ,  and  with  their  rich  tones  of  grey.  If  a  cer- 
tain extremely  heavy  Cupid  poising  in  the  air  by  a  mira- 
cle be  the  other  picture  of  Mr.  Duncan's,  it  can  be  only 
said  that  his  tragedy  is  better  than  his  lightsome  compo- 
sitions— an  arrow  from  yonder  lad  would  bruise  the  re- 
cipient black  and  blue. 

Another  admirable  picture  of  a  Scotch  artist  is  427, 
"  The  Highland  Lament,"  by  Alexander  Johnston.  It 
is  a  shame  to  put  such  a  picture  in  such  a  place.  It 
hangs  on  the  ground  almost  invisible,  while  dozens  of 
tawdry  portraits  are  staring  at  j^ou  on  the  line.  Could 
jNIr.  Johnston's  picture  be  but  seen  properly,  its  great 
beauty  and  merit  would  not  fail  to  strike  hundreds  of 
visitors  who  pass  it  over  now.  A  Highland  piper  comes 
running  forward,  playing  some  wild  lament  on  his  dis- 
mal instrument;  the  women  follow  after,  wailing  and 


MAY  GAMBOLS  503 

sad ;  the  mournful  procession  winds  over  a  dismal  moor. 
The  picture  is  as  clever  for  its  fine  treatment  and  colour, 
for  the  grace  and  action  of  the  figure,  as  it  is  curious  as 
an  illustration  of  national  manners. 

In  speaking  of  the  Scotch  painters,  the  Wilkie-like  pic- 
tures of  Mr.  Fraser,  with  their  peculiar  smeary  manner, 
their  richness  of  tone,  and  their  pleasant  effect  and  hu- 
mour, should  not  be  passed  over;  while  those  of  Mr. 
Geddes  and  Sir  William  Allan  may  be  omitted  vvdth  per- 
fect propriety.  The  latter  presents  her  ^Majesty  and 
Prince  Albert  perched  on  a  rock ;  the  former  has  a  figure 
from  Walter  Scott,  of  very  little  interest  to  any  but  the 
parties  concerned. 

Among  the  Irish  painters  we  remark  two  portraits  by 
Mr.  Crowley,  representing  INIrs.  Aikenhead,  superioress 
of  the  Sisters  of  Charity  in  Ireland,  who  gives  a  very 
favourable  picture  of  the  Society — for  it  is  impossible 
to  conceive  an  abbess  more  comfortable,  kind,  and 
healthy-looking;  and  a  portrait  of  Dr.  JNIurray,  Roman 
Catholic  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  not  a  good  picture  of  a 
fine,  benevolent,  and  venerable  head.  We  do  not  know 
whether  the  painter  of  149,  "  An  Irish  Peasant  awaiting 
her  Husband's  Return,"  Mr.  Anthony,  is  an  Irishman; 
but  it  is  a  pretty  sad  picture,  which  well  characterises  the 
poverty,  the  affection,  and  the  wretchedness  of  the  poor 
Irish  cabin  and  tells  sweetly  and  modestly  a  plaintive 
story.  The  largest  work  in  the  exhibition  is  from  the 
pencil  of  an  Irishman,  ]Mr.  Leahy,  "  Lady  Jane  Grey 
praying  before  Execution."  One  cannot  but  admire  the 
courage  of  artists  who  paint  great  works  upon  these 
tragic  subjects;  great  works  quite  unfitted  for  any  pri- 
vate room,  and  scarcely  suited  to  any  public  one.  But, 
large  as  it  is,  it  may  be  said  (without  any  playing  upon 


504  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

words)  that  the  work  grows  upon  estimation.  The 
painting  is  hard  and  incomplete;  but  the  principal  fig- 
ure excellent:  the  face  especially  is  finely  painted,  and 
full  of  great  beauty.  Also,  in  the  Irish  pictures  may  be 
included  Mr.  Solomon  Hart's  Persian  gentleman  smok- 
ing a  calahan, — a  sly  hint  at  the  learned  Serjeant  mem- 
ber for  Cork,  who  has  often  done  the  same  thing. 

Mr.  Maclise's  little  scene  from  "  Undine "  does  not 
seem  to  us  German  in  character,  as  some  of  the  critics 
call  it,  because  it  is  clear  and  hard  in  line.  What  Ger- 
man artist  is  there  who  Can  draw  with  this  astonishing 
vigour,  precision,  and  variety  of  attitude?  The  picture 
is  one  of  admirable  and  delightful  fancy.  The  swarms 
of  solemn  little  fairies  crowding  round  Undine  and  her 
somewhat  theatrical  lover  may  keep  a  spectator  for  hours 
employed  in  pleasure  and  wonder.  They  look  to  be  the 
real  portraits  of  the  little  people,  sketched  by  the  painter 
in  some  visit  to  their  country.  There  is,  especially,  on  a 
branch  in  the  top  corner  of  the  picture,  a  conversation 
•  going  on  between  a  fairy  and  a  squirrel  (who  is  a  fairy 
too) ,  which  must  have  been  taken  from  nature,  or  Mother 
Bunch's  delightful  super-nature.  How  awful  their 
great  glassy  blue  eyes  are!  How  they  peer  out  from 
under  grass,  and  out  of  flowers,  and  from  twigs  and 
branches,  and  swing  off  over  the  tree-top,  singing  shrill 
little  fairy  choruses!  We  must  have  the  Fairy  Tales 
illustrated  by  this  gentleman,  that  is  clear ;  he  is  the  only 
person,  except  Tieck,  of  Dresden,  who  knows  anything 
about  them.— Yes,  there  is  someone  else;  and  a  word 
may  be  introduced  here  in  welcome  to  the  admirable 
young  designer,  whose  hand  has  lately  been  employed  to 
illustrate  the  columns  of  our  facetious  friend  (and  the 
friend  of  everybody)  Punch.     This  young  artist  (who 


MAY  GAMBOLS  505 

has  avowed  his  name,  a  very  well-known  one,  that  of 
Doyle)  has  poured  into  Punch's  columns  a  series  of 
drawings  quite  extraordinary  for  their  fancy,  their  vari- 
ety, their  beaut}%  and  fun.  It  is  the  true  genius  of  fairy- 
land, of  burlesque  which  never  loses  sight  of  beauty. 
Friend  Punch's  very  wrapper  is  quite  a  marvel  in  this 
way,  at  which  we  can  never  look  without  discovering 
some  new  little  quip  of  humour  or  pleasant  frolic  of 
grace. 

And  if  we  have  had  reason  to  complain  of  Mr.  Leslie's 
"  Comus  "  as  deficient  in  poetry,  what  person  is  there 
that  will  not  welcome  "  Sancho,"  although  we  have  seen 
him  before  almost  in  the  same  attitude,  employed  in  the 
same  waj^  recounting  his  adventures  to  the  kind  smiling 
duchess  as  she  sits  in  state?  There  is  only  the  sour  old 
duenna  who  refuses  to  be  amused,  and  nothing  has  ever 
amused  her  these  sixty  years.  But  the  ladies  are  all 
charmed,  and  tittering  with  one  another ;  the  black  slave 
w^ho  leans  against  the  pillar  has  gone  off  in  an  honest  fit 
of  downright  laughter.  Even  the  little  dog,  the  won- 
derful little  Blenheim,  by  the  lady's  side,  would  laugh  if 
she  could  (but,  alas!  it  is  impossible),  as  the  other  little 
dog  is  said  to  have  done  on  the  singular  occasion  when 
"  the  cow  jumped  over  the  moon."  ^  The  glory  of  dul- 
ness  is  in  Sancho's  face.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  man  in 
the  world — no,  not  even  in  the  House  of  Commons — so 
stupid  as  that.  On  the  Whig  side  there  is,  certainly, — 
but  no,  it  is  best  not  to  make  comparisons  which  fall 
short  of  the  mark.  This  is,  indeed,  the  Sancho  that  Cer- 
vantes drew. 

Although  the  editor  of  this  Magazine  had  made  a  sol- 

^  "  Qualia  prospiciens  Catulus  ferit  aethera  risu 

Ipsaque  trans  lunse  cornua  Vacca  salit."— Lttcretius. 


506  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

emn  condition  with  the  writer  of  this  notice  that  no  pic- 
tures taken  from  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield "  or  "  Gil 
Bias  "  should,  by  any  favour  of  pretence,  be  noticed  in 
the  review;  yet,  as  the  great  picture  of  ]Mr.  Mulready 
compelled  the  infraction  of  the  rule,  rushing  through  our 
resolve  by  the  indomitable  force  of  genius,  we  must,  as 
the  line  is  broken,  present  other  Vicars,  Thornhills,  and 
Olivias,  to  walk  in  and  promenade  themselves  in  our  col- 
umns, in  spite  of  the  vain  placards  at  the  entrance, 
"  Vicars  of  Wakefield  not  admitted."  In  the  first 
place,  let  the  Reverend  Doctor  Primrose  and  Miss  Prim- 
rose walk  up  in  Mr.  Hollins's  company.  The  vicar  is 
mildly  expostulating  with  his  daughter  regarding  the 
attentions  of  Squire  Thornhill.  He  looks  mild,  too  mild; 
she  looks  ill-humoured,  very  sulky.  Is  it  about  the 
scolding,  or  the  Squire?  The  figures  are  very  nicely 
painted ;  but  they  do  not  look  accustomed  ( the  lady  es- 
pecialty)  to  the  dresses  they  wear.  After  them  come 
Mrs.  Primrose,  the  Misses  and  the  young  Masters  Prim- 
rose, presented  by  Mr.  Frith  in  his  pretty  picture  (491) . 
Squire  Thornhill  sits  at  his  ease,  and  recounts  his  town 
adventures  to  the  ladies ;  the  beautiful  Olivia  is  quite  lost 
in  love  with  the  slim  red-coated  dandy ;  her  sister  is  lis- 
tening with  respect ;  but,  above  all,  the  old  lady  and  chil- 
dren Iiearken  with  wonder.  These  latter  are  charming 
figures,  as  indeed  are  all  in  the  picture.  As  for  Gil 
Bias, — but  we  shall  be  resolute  about  him.  Certain  Gil 
Bias  there  are  in  the  exhibition  eating  olla-podridas,  and 
what  not.  Not  a  word,  however,  shall  be  said  regarding 
any  one  of  tliem. 

Among  tlie  figure-pieces  Mr.  Ward's  "Lafleur" 
must  not  be  forgotten,  which  is  pleasant,  lively,  and 
smartly  drawn  and  painted;  nor  Mr.  Gilbert's  "Pear- 


MAY   GAMBOLS  507 

tree  Well,"  which  contains  three  graceful  classical  fig- 
ures, which  are  rich  in  effect  and  colour ;  nor  jNIr.  jNlac- 
Innes's  good  picture  of  Luther  listening  to  the  sacred 
ballad  (the  reformer  is  shut  up  in  the  octagon-room)  ; 
nor  a  picture  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  on  his  rambles,  play- 
ing the  flute  at  a  peasant's  door,  in  which  the  colour  is 
very  pretty;  the  character  of  the  French  peasants  not 
French  at  all,  and  the  poet's  figure  easy,  correct,  and 
well  drawn. 

Among  more  serious  subjects  may  be  mentioned  witli 
praise  ^Ir.  Dyce's  two  fierce  figures,  representing  King 
Joash  shooting  the  arrow  of  deliverance,  which  if  the 
critic  call  "  French,"  because  they  are  well  and  carefully 
drawn,  Mr.  Dyce  may  be  proud  of  being  a  Frenchman. 
Mr.  Lauder's  "Wise  and  Foolish  Virgins"  is  a  fine 
composition;  the  colour  sombre  and  mj'sterious;  some 
of  the  figures  extremely  graceful,  and  the  sentiment  of 
the  picture  excellent.  This  is  a  picture  which  would 
infallibly  have  had  a  chance  of  a  prize,  if  the  poor  dear 
Art-Union  were  free  to  act. 

Mr.  Elmore's  "  Rienzi  addressing  the  People  "  is  one 
of  the  very  best  pictures  in  the  gallery.  It  is  well  and 
agreeably  coloured,  bright,  pleasing,  and  airy.  A  group 
of  people  are  gathered  round  the  tribune,  who  addresses 
them  among  Roman  ruins  under  a  clear  blue  sky.  The 
grouping  is  very  good;  the  figures  rich  and  picturesque 
in  attitude  and  costume.  There  is  a  group  in  front  of 
a  mother  and  child  who  are  thinking  of  anything  but 
Rienzi  and  liberty;  who,  perhaps,  ought  not  to  be  so 
prominent,  as  they  take  away  from  the  purpose  of  the 
picture,  but  who  are  beautiful  wherever  they  are.  And 
the  picture  is  further  to  be  remarked  for  the  clear, 
steady,  and  honest  painting  which  distinguishes  it. 


508  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

What  is  to  be  said  of  Mr.  Poole's  "  Moors  beleaguered 
in  Valencia "  ?  A  clever  hideous  picture  in  the  very- 
worst  taste;  disease  and  desperation  characteristically 
illustrated.  The  Sj)aniards  beleaguer  the  town,  and 
everybody  is  starving.  Mothers  with  dry  breasts  unable 
to  nourish  infants ;  old  men,  with  lean  ribs  and  bloodshot 
eyes,  moaning  on  the  pavement;  brown  young  skeletons 
pacing  up  and  down  the  rampart,  some  raving,  all  des- 
perate. Such  is  the  agreeable  theme  which  the  painter 
has  taken  up.  It  is  worse  than  last  year,  when  the  artist 
only  painted  the  Plague  of  London.  Some  did  recover 
from  that.  All  these  Moors  will  be  dead  before  another 
day,  and  the  vultures  will  fatten  on  their  lean  carcasses, 
and  pick  out  their  red-hot  eyeballs.  Why  do  young 
men  indulge  in  these  horrors?  Young  poets  and  ro- 
mancers often  do  so,  and  fancy  they  are  exhibiting 
"power;"  whereas  nothing  is  so  easy.  Any  man  with 
mere  instinct  can  succeed  in  the  brutal  in  art.  The 
coarse  fury  of  Zurbaran  and  Morales  is  as  far  below  the 
sweet  and  beneficent  calm  of  Murillo  as  a  butcher  is 
beneath  a  hero.  Don't  let  us  have  any  more  of  these 
hideous  exhibitions — these  ghoul  festivals.  It  may  be 
remembered  that  Amina  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights,"  who 
liked  churchyard  suppers,  could  only  eat  a  grain  of 
rice  when  she  came  to  natural  food.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  sly  satire  in  the  apologue  which  might  be  applied 
to  many  (especially  French)  literary  and  pictorial  ar- 
tists of  the  convulsionary  school. 

We  must  not  take  leave  of  the  compositions  without 
mentioning  Mr.  Landseer's  wonderful  "Shoeing"  and 
Stag;  the  latter  the  most  poetical,  the  former  the  most 
dexterous,  perhaps,  of  the  works  of  this  accomplished 
painter.    The  latter  picture,  at  a  little  distance,  expands 


MAY   GAMBOLS  509 

almost  into  the  size  of  nature.  The  enormous  stag  by 
the  side  of  a  great  blue  northern  lake  stalks  over  the 
snow  down  to  the  shore,  whither  his  mate  is  coming 
through  the  water  to  join  him.  Snowj^  mountains  bend 
round  the  lonely  landscape,  the  stars  are  shining  out 
keenly  in  the  deep  icy  blue  overhead;  in  a  word,  your 
teeth  begin  to  chatter  as  you  look  at  the  picture,  and  it 
can't  properly  be  seen  without  a  great-coat.  The  donkey 
and  the  horse  in  the  shoeing  picture  are  prodigious 
imitations  of  nature;  the  blacksmith  only  becomes  im- 
palpable.  There  is  a  charming  portrait  in  the  great 
room  by  the  same  artist  in  which  the  same  defect  may 
be  remarked.  A  lady  is  represented  with  two  dogs  in 
her  lap ;  the  dogs  look  real ;  the  lady  a  thin  unsubstantial 
vision  of  a  beautiful  woman.  You  ought  to  see  the  land- 
scape through  her. 

Amongst  the  landscape-painters,  Mr.  Stanfield  has 
really  painted  this  year  better  than  any  former  j^ear— 
a  difficult  matter.  The  pictures  are  admirable,  the  draw- 
ing of  the  water  wonderful,  the  look  of  freshness  and 
breeze  and  motion  conveyed  with  delightful  skill.  All 
Mr.  Creswick's  pictures  will  be  seen  with  pleasure,  espe- 
cially the  delicious  "Summer  Evening;"  the  most  airy 
and  clear,  and  also  the  most  poetical  of  his  landscapes. 
The  fine  "  Evening  Scene  "  of  Danby  also  seems  to  have 
the  extent  and  splendour,  and  to  suggest  the  solemn 
feelings  of  a  vast  mountain-scene  at  sunset.  The  ad- 
mirers of  Sir  Augustus  Callcott's  soft  golden  land- 
scapes will  here  find  some  of  his  most  delightful  pieces. 
]Mr.  Roberts  has  painted  his  best  in  his  Nile  scene,  and 
his  French  architectural  pieces  are  of  scarce  inferior 
merit.  INIr.  Lee,  Mr.  Witherington,  and  INIr.  Leitch 
have  contributed  works,  showing  all  their  well-known 


510  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

qualities  and  skill.  And  as  for  Mr.  Turner,  he  has  out- 
prodigied  almost  all  former  prodigies.  He  has  made 
a  picture  with  real  rain,  behind  which  is  real  sunshine, 
and  you  expect  a  rainbow  every  minute.  Meanwhile, 
there  comes  a  train  down  upon  you,  really  moving  at 
the  rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour,  and  which  the  reader  had 
best  make  haste  to  see,  lest  it  should  dash  out  of  the 
picture,  and  be  away  up  Charing  Cross  through  the  wall 
opposite.  All  these  wonders  are  performed  with  means 
not  less  wonderful  than  the  effects  are.  The  rain,  in  the 
astounding  picture  called  "Rain— Steam — Speed,"  is 
composed  of  dabs  of  dirty  putty  slapped  on  to  the  can- 
vas with  a  trowel;  the  sunshine  scintillates  out  of  very 
thick  smeary  lumps  of  chrome  yellow.  The  shadows 
are  produced  by  cool  tones  of  crimson  lake,  and  quiet 
glazings  of  vermilion.  Although  the  fire  in  the  steam- 
engine  looks  as  if  it  were  red,  I  am  not  prepared  to 
say  that  it  is  not  painted  with  cobalt  and  pea-green. 
And  as  for  the  manner  in  which  the  '' Speed^'  is 
done,  of  that  the  less  said  the  better, — only  it  is  a  posi- 
tive fact  that  there  is  a  steam-coach  going  fifty  miles 
an  hour.  The  world  has  never  seen  anything  like  this 
picture. 

In  respect  of  the  portraits  of  the  exhibition,  if  Royal 
Academicians  will  take  the  word  of  the  Morning  Post, 
the  Morning  Chronicle,  the  Spectator,  and,  far  above 
all,  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  they  will  pause  a  little  before 
they  hang  such  a  noble  portrait  as  that  of  W.  Conyngham, 
Esquire,  by  Samuel  Lawrence,  away  out  of  sight,  while 
some  of  their  own  paltry  canvases  meet  the  spectator 
nose  to  nose.  The  man  with  the  glove  of  Titian  in  the 
Ijouvre  has  evidently  inspired  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  his 
picture  is  so  far  an  imitation;  but  what  then?  it  is  better 


MAY  GAMBOLS  511 

to  imitate  great  things  well  than  to  imitate  a  simpering 
barber's  dummy,  like  Xo.  10000,  let  us  say,  or  to  per- 
petrate yonder  horrors,— weak,  but,  oh!  how  heavy, 
smeared,  flat,  pink  and  red,  grinning,  ill-drawn  portraits 
(such  as  Nos.  99999  and  99999^^)  which  the  old  Acade- 
micians perpetrate !  You  are  right  to  keep  the  best  pic- 
ture in  the  room  out  of  the  way,  to  be  sure;  it  would 
sternly  frown  your  simpering  unfortunates  out  of  coun- 
tenance; but  let  us  have  at  least  a  chance  of  seeing  the 
good  pictures.  Have  one  room,  say,  for  the  Academi- 
cians, and  another  for  the  clever  artists.  Diminish  your 
number  of  exhibited  pictures  to  six,  if  you  like,  but  give 
the  young  men  a  chance.  It  is  pitiful  to  see  their  works 
pushed  out  of  sight,  and  to  be  offered  what  you  give  us 
in  exchange. 

This  does  not  apply  to  all  the  esquires  who  paint  por- 
traits ;  but,  with  regard  to  the  names  of  the  delinquents, 
it  is  best  to  be  silent,  lest  a  showing  up  of  them  should 
have  a  terrible  effect  on  the  otherwise  worthy  men,  and 
drive  them  to  an  untimely  desperation.  So  I  shall  say 
little  about  the  portraits,  mentioning  merely  that  Mr. 
Grant  has  one  or  two,  a  small  one  especially,  of  great 
beauty  and  ladylike  grace;  and  one  very  bad  one,  such 
as  that  of  Lord  Forrester.  ]\Ir.  Pickersgill  has  some 
good  heads ;  the  little  portrait  of  Mr.  Ainsworth  by  Mr. 
Maclise  is  as  clever  and  like  as  the  artist  knows  how  to 
make  it.  jNIr.  oMiddleton  has  some  female  heads  espe- 
cially beautiful.  ]Mrs.  Carpenter  is  one  of  the  most 
manly  painters  in  the  exhibition;  and  if  j^ou  walk 
into  the  miniature-room,  you  may  look  at  the  de- 
licious little  gems  from  the  pencil  of  Sir  William  Ross, 
those  still  more  graceful  and  poetical  b}^  IVIr.  Thorburn, 
and  the  delightful  coxcombries  of  Mr.  Chalon.    I  have 


512  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

found  out  a  proper  task  for  that  gentleman,  and  hereby 
propose  that  he  should  illustrate  "  Coningsby." 

In  the  statue-room,  Mr.  Gibson's  classic  group  at- 
tracts attention  and  deserves  praise;  and  the  busts  of 
Parker,  Macdonald,  Behnes,  and  other  well-known  por- 
trait-sculptors, have  all  their  usual  finish,  skill,  and  charm. 

At  the  Water-Colour  Gallery  the  pleased  spectator 
lingers  as  usual  delighted,  surrounded  by  the  pleasantest 
drawings  and  the  most  genteel  company.  It  requires 
no  small  courage  to  walk  through  that  avenue  of  plush 
breeches  with  which  the  lobby  is  lined,  and  to  pass  two 
files  of  whiskered  men  in  canes  and  huge  calves,  who 
contemptuously  regard  us  poor  fellows  with  Bluchers 
and  gingham  umbrellas.  But  these  passed,  you  are  in 
the  best  society.  Bishops,  I  have  remarked,  frequent 
this  gallery  in  venerable  numbers;  likewise  dignified 
clergymen  with  rosettes;  Quakeresses,  also,  in  dove- 
coloured  silks  meekly  changing  colour ;  squires  and  their 
families  from  the  country;  and  it  is  a  fact,  that  you 
never  can  enter  the  Gallery  without  seeing  a  wonder- 
fully pretty  girl.  This  fact  merits  to  be  generally 
known,  and  is  alone  worth  the  price  of  this  article. 

I  suspect  that  there  are  some  people  from  the  country 
who  admire  Mr.  Prout  still;  those  fresh,  honest,  unal- 
loyed country  appetites!  There  are  the  Prout  Nurem- 
bergs  and  Venices  still;  the  awnings,  the  water-posts, 
and  the  red-capped  bargemen  drawn  with  a  reed  pen; 
but  we  biases  young  I'oucs  about  London  get  tired  of 
these  simple  dishes,  and  must  have  more  excitement. 
Tliere,  too,  are  INIr.  Hill's  stags  with  pink  stomachs,  his 
s))inach  pastures  and  mottled  farmhouses;  also  innumer- 
able windy  downs  and  heatlis  by  Mr.  Copley  Fielding: 


MAY  GAMBOLS  513 

—in  the  which  breezy  flats  I  have  so  often  wandered 
before  with  burnt-sienna  ploughboys,  that  the  walk  is  no 
longer  tempting. 

Xot  so,  however,  the  marine  pieces  of  ]Mr.  BentleJ^ 
That  gentleman,  to  our  thinking,  has  never  painted  so 
well.  Witness  his  "  Indiaman  towed  up  the  Thames  " 
(53),  his  "Signalling  the  Pilot"  (161),  and  his  ad- 
mirable view  of  "Mont  Saint  Michel"  (127),  in  which 
the  vessel  quite  dances  and  falls  on  the  w^ater.  He  de- 
serves to  divide  the  prize  with  Mr.  Stanfield  at  the 
Academy. 

All  the  works  of  a  clever  young  landscape-painter,  Mr. 
G.  A.  Fripp,  may  be  looked  at  with  pleasure ;  thej'^  show 
great  talent,  no  small  dexterit}%  and  genuine  enthusiastic 
love  of  nature.  ]Mr.  Alfred  Fripp,  a  figure-painter, 
merits  likewise  very  much  praise ;  his  works  are  not  com- 
plete as  yet,  but  his  style  is  thoughtful,  dramatic,  and 
original. 

Mr.  Hunt's  dramas  of  one  or  two  characters  are  as 
entertaining  and  curious  as  ever.  His  "  Outcast "  is 
amazingly  fine,  and  tragic  in  character.  His  "  Sick 
Cigar-boy,"  a  wonderful  delineation  of  nausea.  Look 
at  the  picture  of  the  toilette,  in  which,  with  the  parlour- 
tongs,  Betty,  the  housemaid,  is  curling  little  miss's  hair: 
here  is  a  dish  of  yellow  soap  in  that  drawing,  and  an  old 
comb  and  brush,  the  fidelity  of  w^hich  make  the  delicate 
beholder  shudder.  On  one  of  the  screens  there  are  some 
"  bird's-nests,"  out  of  wdiich  I  am  surprised  no  spectator 
has  yet  stolen  any  of  the  eggs — you  have  but  to  stoop 
down  and  take  them. 

Mr.  Taylor's  delightful  drawings  are  even  more  than 
ordinarily  clever.  His  "  Houseless  Wanderers "  is 
worthy  of  Hogarth  in  humour ;  most  deliciously  coloured 


514  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

and  treated.  "The  Gleaner"  is  full  of  sunshine;  the 
larder  quite  a  curiosity,  as  showing  the  ease,  truth,  and 
dexterity  with  which  the  artist  washes  in  his  flowing  de- 
lineations from  nature.  In  his  dogs,  you  don't  know 
which  most  to  admire,  the  fidelity  with  which  the  animals 
are  painted,  or  the  ease  with  which  they  are  done. 

This  gift  of  facility  Mr.  Cattermole  also  possesses  to 
an  amazing  extent.  As  pieces  of  effect,  his  "  Porch  " 
and  "Rook-shooting"  are  as  wonderful  as  they  are 
pleasing.  His  large  picture  of  "  Monks  in  a  Refectory  " 
is  very  fine;  rich,  original,  and  sober  in  colour;  excellent 
in  sentiment  and  general  grouping ;  in  individual  attitude 
and  drawing  not  sufficiently  correct.  As  the  figures  are 
much  smaller  than  those  in  the  refectory,  these  faults  are 
less  visible  in  the  magnificent  "  Battle  for  the  Bridge," 
a  composition,  perhaps,  the  most  complete  that  the  artist 
has  yet  produced.  The  landscape  is  painted  as  grandly 
as  Salvator;  the  sky  wonderful^  airy,  the  sunshine  shin- 
ing through  the  glades  of  the  wood,  the  huge  trees  rock- 
ing and  swaying  as  the  breeze  rushes  by  them;  the  bat- 
tling figures  are  full  of  hurry,  fire,  and  tumult.  All 
these  things  are  rather  indicated  by  the  painter  than  de- 
fined by  him;  but  such  hints  are  enough  from  such  a 
genius.  The  charmed  and  captivated  imagination  is 
quite  ready  to  supply  what  else  is  wanting. 

Mr.  Frederick  Nash  has  some  unpretending,  homely, 
exquisitely  faithful  scenes  in  the  Rhine  country,  "  Bop- 
part,"  "  Bacharach,"  &c.,  of  which  a  sojourner  in  those 
charming  districts  will  always  be  glad  to  have  a  remi- 
niscence. Mr.  Joseph  Nash  has  not  some  of  the  cleverest 
of  his  mannerisms,  nor  Mr.  Lake  Price  the  best  of  his 
smart,  dandified,  utterly  unnatural  exteriors.  By  far 
the  best  designs  of  this  kind  are  the  Windsor  and  Buck- 


MAY  GAMBOLS  515 

ingham  Palace  sketches  of  Mr.  Douglas  ^lorison,  exe- 
cuted with  curious  fidelity  and  skill.  There  is  the  din- 
ing-hall  in  Buckingham  Palace,  with  all  the  portraits,  all 
the  candles  in  all  the  chandeliers;  the  China  gimcracks 
over  the  mantelpiece,  the  dinner-table  set  out,  the  nap- 
kins folded  mitrewise,  the  round  water-glasses,  the 
sherry-glasses,  the  champagne  ditto,  and  all  in  a  space 
not  so  big  as  two  pages  of  this  JNIagazine.  There  is  the 
Queen's  own  chamber  at  Windsor,  her  JNlajesty's  piano, 
her  royal  writing-table,  an  escritoire  with  pigeon-holes, 
where  the  august  papers  are  probably  kept;  and  very 
curious,  clever,  and  ugly  all  these  pictures  of  furniture 
are  too,  and  will  be  a  model  for  the  avoidance  of  uphol- 
sterers in  coming  ages. 

JNIr.  John  William  Wright's  sweet  female  figures 
must  not  be  passed  over;  nor  the  pleasant  Stothard-like 
drawings  of  his  veteran  namesake.  The  "  Gipsies  "  of 
^Ir.  Oakley  will  also  be  looked  at  with  pleasure;  and 
this  gentleman  may  be  complimented  as  likely  to  rival 
the  Richmonds  and  the  Chalons  "in  another  place," 
where  may  be  seen  a  very  good  full-length  portrait 
drawn  by  him. 

The  exhibition  of  the  New  Society  of  Water-Colour 
Painters  has  grown  to  be  quite  as  handsome  and  agree- 
able as  that  of  its  mamma,  the  old  Society  in  Pall  Mall 
East.  Those  who  remember  this  little  band  of  painters, 
to  whom  the  gates  of  the  elder  Gallery  were  hopelessly 
shut,  must  be  glad  to  see  the  progress  the  younger  branch 
has  made ;  and  we  have  every  reason  to  congratulate  our- 
selves that,  instead  of  one  pleasant  exhibition  annually, 
the  amateur  can  recreate  himself  now  with  two.  IMany 
of  the  pictures  here  are  of  very  great  merit. 


516  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Mr.  Warren's  Egyptian  pictures  are  clever,  and  only 
need  to  be  agreeable  where  he  takes  a  pretty  subject, 
such  as  that  of  the  " Egyptian  Lady"  (150)  ;  his  work 
is  pretty  sure  to  be  followed  by  that  welcome  little  ticket 
of  emerald  green  in  the  corner,  which  announces  that  a 
purchaser  has  made  his  appearance.  But  the  eye  is  lit- 
tle interested  by  views  of  yellow  deserts  and  sheikhs,  and 
w^oolly-headed  warriors  with  ugly  wooden  swords. 

And  yet  mere  taste,  grace,  and  beauty  won't  always 
succeed;  witness  Mr.  Absolon's  drawings,  of  which  few 
— far  too  few^— boast  the  green  seal  and  which  are  one 
and  all  of  them  charming.  There  is  one  in  the  first  room 
from  the  "V-c-r  of  W-kef— Id"  (we  are  determined 
not  to  write  that  name  again) ,  which  is  delightfully  com- 
posed, and  a  fresh,  happy  picture  of  a  country  fete. 
"  The  Dartmoor  Turf -gatherers  "  (87)  is  still  better ;  the 
picture  is  full  of  air,  grace,  pretty  drawing,  and  brilliant 
colour,  and  yet  no  green  seal.  "  A  Little  Sulky; "  "  The 
Devonshire  Cottage-door; "  "  The  Widow  on  the  Stile;  " 
"The  Stocking-knitter;"  are  all,  too,  excellent  in  their 
way,  and  bear  the  artist's  cachet  of  gentle  and  amiable 
grace.  But  the  drawings,  in  point  of  execution,  do  not 
go  far  enough ;  they  are  not  sufficientlj^  bright  to  attract 
the  eyes  of  that  great  and  respectable  body  of  amateurs 
who  love  no  end  of  cobalt,  carmine,  stippling,  and  plenty 
of  emerald  green  and  vermilion ;  they  are  not  made  out 
sufficiently  in  line  to  rank  as  pictures. 

Behold  how  Mr.  Corbould  can  work  when  he  likes— 
how  he  can  work  you  off  the  carmine  stippling!  In  his 
large  piece,  "  The  Britons  deploring  the  Departure  of 
the  Romans,"  there  is  much  very  fine  and  extraordinary 
cleverness  of  pencil.  ^Vitness  the  draperies  of  the  two 
women,  which  are  painted  with  so  much  cleverness  and 
beauty,  that,  indeed,  one  regrets  that  one  of  them  has 


MAY  GAMBOLS  517 

not  got  a  little  drapery  more.  The  same  tender  regard 
pervades  the  bosom  while  looking  at  that  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
"  While  engaged  in  the  servile  offices  of  her  situation  as 
a  menial  at  an  inn,  ruminating  upon  the  distressing  state 
of  France."  Her  "  servile  situation  "  seems  to  be  that 
of  an  ostler  at  the  establishment  in  question,  for  she  is 
leading  down  a  couple  of  animals  to  drink;  and  as  for 
the  "  distressing  state  of  France,"  it  ought  not,  surely, 
to  aiFect  such  a  fat  little  comfortable  simple-looking  un- 
dressed body.  Bating  the  figure  of  Joan,  who  looks  as 
23retty  as  a  young  lady  out  of  the  last  novel,  bating,  I 
say,  baiting  Joan,  who  never  rode  horses,  depend  on't, 
in  that  genteel  way,  the  picture  is  exceedingly  skilful, 
and  much  better  in  colour  than  JNIr.  Corbould's  former 
works. 

JNIr.  Wehnert's  great  drawing  is  a  failure,  but  an 
honourable  defeat.  It  shows  great  power  and  mastery 
over  the  material  with  which  he  works.  He  has  two 
pretty  German  figures  in  the  fore-room:  "The  Inn- 
keeper's Daughter"  (38)  ;  and  "Perdita  and  Florizel" 

(316).  Perhaps  he  is  the  author  of  the  pretty  ara- 
besques mth  which  the  Society  have  this  year  ornamented 
their  list  of  pictures ;  he  has  a  German  name,  and  Eng- 
lish artists  can  have  no  need  to  be  copying  from  Diissel- 
dorf 's  embellishments  to  decorate  the  catalogues. 

Mr.  Haghe's  great  drawing  of  the  "  Death  of 
Zurbaran "  is  not  interesting  from  any  peculiar  fine- 
ness of  expression  in  the  faces  of  the  actors  who 
figure  in  this  gloomy  scene;  but  it  is  largely  and 
boldly  painted,  in  deep  sombre  washes  of  colours, 
witli  none  of  the  niggling  prettinesses  to  which 
artists  in  water-colours  seem  forced  to  resort  in  order 
to    bring    their    pictures    to    a    high    state    of    finish. 

Here  the  figures  and  the  draperies  look  as  if  they  were 


518  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

laid  down  at  once  with  a  bold  yet  careful  certaintj^^  of 
hand.  The  effect  of  the  piece  is  very  fine,  the  figures 
grandly  grouped.  Among  all  the  water-colour  painters 
we  know  of  none  who  can  wield  the  brush  like  Mr. 
Haghe,  with  his  skill,  his  breadth,  and  his  certainty. 

Mr.  Jenkins's  beautiful  female  figure  in  the  drawing 
called  "Love"  (123)  must  be  mentioned  with  especial 
praise;  it  is  charming  in  design,  colour,  and  sentiment. 
Another  female  figure,  "  The  Girl  at  the  Stile,"  by  the 
same  artist,  has  not  equal  finish,  roundness,  and  com- 
pleteness, but  the  same  sentiment  of  tender  grace  and 
beauty. 

]Mr.  Bright's  landscape-drawings  are  exceedingly 
clever,  but  there  is  too  much  of  the  drawing-master  in 
the  handling,  too  much  dash,  skurry,  sharp  cleverness  of 
execution.  Him  JNIr.  Jutsum  follows  with  cleverness  not 
quite  equal,  and  mannerism  still  greater.  After  the  per- 
formance of  which  the  eye  reposes  gratefully  upon  some 
pleasant  evening  scenes  by  Mr.  Duncan  (3, 10)  ;  and  the 
delightful  "  Shady  Land "  of  Mr.  Youngman.  Mr. 
Boys's  pictures  will  be  always  looked  at  and  admired  for 
the  skill  and  correctness  of  a  hand  which,  in  drawing,  is 
not  inferior  to  that  of  Canaletto. 

As  for  Suffolk  Street,  that  delicious  retreat  may  or 
may  not  be  still  open.  I  have  been  there,  but  was  fright- 
ened from  the  place  by  the  sight  of  Haydon's  Napoleon, 
with  his  vast  head,  his  large  body,  and  his  little  legs,  star- 
ing out  upon  the  Indigo  sea,  in  a  grass-green  coat. 
Nervous  people  avoid  that  sight,  and  the  Emperor  re- 
mains in  Suffolk  Street  as  lonely  as  at  Saint  Helena. 

(Froser^s  Magazine,  June  1844.) 


PICTURE  GOSSIP:   IN  A  LETTER  FROM 
MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMARSH 

all'  illustrissimo  sign  or,  il  mio  signor  colendissimo, 
augusto  ha  arve,  pittore  in  roma 

I  AM  going  to  fulfil  the  promise,  my  dear  Augiisto, 
which  I  uttered,  with  a  faltering  voice  and  stream- 
ing eyes,  before  I  stepped  into  the  jingling  old  courier's 
vehicle,  which  w^as  to  bear  me  from  Rome  to  Florence. 
Can  I  forget  that  night— that  parting?  Gaunter  stood 
by  so  affected,  that  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
did  not  swear  once;  Flake's  emotion  exhibited  itself  in 
audible  sobs ;  Jellyson  said  nought,  but  thrust  a  bundle 
of  Torlonia's  four-baiocchi  cigars  into  the  hand  of  the 
departing  friend ;  and  you  yourself  were  so  deeply  agi- 
tated by  the  event,  that  you  took  four  glasses  of  absinthe 
to  string  up  your  nerves  for  the  fatal  moment.  Strange 
vision  of  past  days! — for  vision  it  seems  to  me  now.  And 
have  I  been  in  Rome  really  and  truly?  Have  I  seen  the 
great  works  of  my  Christian  namesake  of  the  Buonan-oti 
family,  and  the  light  arcades  of  the  Vatican?  Have  I 
seen  the  glorious  Apollo,  and  that  other  divine  fiddle- 
player  whom  Raphael  painted?  Yes— and  the  English 
dandies  swaggering  on  the  Pincian  Hill!  Yes— and 
have  eaten  woodcocks  and  drunk  Orvieto  hard  by  the 
huge  broad-shouldered  Pantheon  Portico,  in  the  com- 
fortable parlours  of  the  "  Falcone."  Do  you  recollect 
that  speech  I  made  at  Bertini's  in  proposing  the  health  of 

519 


520  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

the  Pope  of  Rome  on  Christmas-day?— do  you  remem- 
ber it?  I  don't.  But  his  Hohness,  no  doubt,  heard  of 
the  oration,  and  was  flattered  by  the  compHment  of  the 
illustrious  English  traveller. 

I  went  to  the  exhibition  of  the  Royal  Academy  lately, 
and  all  these  reminiscences  rushed  back  on  a  sudden  with 
affecting  volubility;  not  that  there  was  anything  in  or 
out  of  the  gallery  which  j)ut  me  specially  in  mind  of 
sumptuous  and  liberal  Rome ;  but  in  the  great  room  was 
the  picture  of  a  fellow  in  a  broad  Roman  hat,  in  a  velvet 
Roman  coat,  and  large  yellow  mustachios,  and  that  pro- 
digious scowl  wliich  young  artists  assume  when  sitting 
for  their  portraits — he  was  one  of  our  set  at  Rome;  and 
the  scenes  of  the  winter  came  back  pathetically  to  my 
mind,  and  all  the  friends  of  that  season, — Orifice  and  his 
sentimental  songs;  Father  Giraldo  and  his  poodle,  and 
INIacBrick  the  trump  of  bankers.  Hence  the  determina- 
tion to  write  this  letter ;  but  the  hand  is  crabbed,  and  the 
postage  is  dear,  and  instead  of  despatching  it  by  the  mail, 
I  shall  send  it  to  you  by  means  of  the  printer,  knowing 
well  that  Frasers  Magazine  is  eagerly  read  at  Rome, 
and  not  (on  account  of  its  morality)  excluded  in  the 
Index  Eocpurgatorius. 

And  it  will  be  doubly  agreeable  to  me  to  write  to  you 
regarding  the  fine  arts  in  England,  because  I  know,  my 
dear  Augusto,  that  you  have  a  thorough  contempt  for 
my  opinion — indeed,  for  that  of  all  persons,  excepting, 
of  course,  one  whose  name  is  already  written  in  this  sen- 
tence. Such,  however,  is  not  the  feeling  respecting  my 
critical  powers  in  this  country ;  here  they  know  the  merit 
of  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  better,  and  they  saj^  "  He 
paints  so  badly,  that,  hang  it!  he  must  be  a  good  judge ; " 
in  the  latter  part  of  which  opinion,  of  course,  I  agree. 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  521 

You  should  have  seen  the  consternation  of  the  fellows 
at  my  arrival! — of  our  dear  brethren  who  thought  I  was 
safe  at  Rome  for  the  season,  and  that  their  works,  exhib- 
ited in  May,  would  be  spared  the  dreadful  ordeal  of  my 
ferocious  eye.  When  I  entered  the  club-room  in  Saint 
Martin's  Lane,  and  called  for  a  glass  of  brandj^-and- 
water  like  a  bomb-shell,  you  should  have  seen  the  terror 
of  some  of  the  artists  assembled!  They  knew  that  the 
frightful  projectile  just  launched  into  their  club-room 
must  hurst  in  the  natural  course  of  things.  Who  would 
be  struck  down  by  the  explosion?  was  the  thought  of 
everyone.  Some  of  the  hypocrites  welcomed  me  meanly 
back,  some  of  the  timid  trembled,  some  of  the  savage  and 
guilty  muttered  curses  at  my  arrival.  You  should  have 
seen  the  ferocious  looks  of  Daggerly,  for  example,  as  he 
scowled  at  me  from  the  supper-table,  and  clutched  the 
trenchant  weapon  with  which  he  was  dissevering  his 
toasted  cheese. 

From  the  period  of  my  arrival  until  that  of  the  open- 
ing of  the  various  galleries,  I  maintained  with  the  artists 
every  proper  affability,  but  still  was  not  too  familiar. 
It  is  the  custom  of  their  friends  before  their  pictures  are 
sent  in  to  the  exhibitions,  to  visit  the  painters'  works  at 
their  private  studios,  and  there  encourage  them  by  say- 
ing, "Bravo,  Jones"  (I  don't  mean  Jones,  R.A.,  for  I 
defy  any  man  to  say  bravo  to  him,  but  Jones  in  general) ! 
"  Tomkins,  this  is  your  greatest  work ! "  "  Smith,  my  boy, 
they  must  elect  you  an  Associate  for  this!" — and  so 
forth.  These  harmless  banalities  of  compliment  pass  be- 
tween the  painters  and  their  friends  on  such  occasions. 
I,  myself,  have  uttered  many  such  civil  phrases  in  former 
years  under  like  circumstances.  But  it  is  different  now. 
Fame  has  its  privations  as  well  as  its  pleasures.     The 


522  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

friend  may  see  his  companions  in  private,  but  the  Judge 
must  not  pay  visits  to  his  dients.  I  stayed  away  from 
the  ateliers  of  all  the  artists  (at  least,  I  only  visited  one, 
kindly  telling  him  that  he  didn't  count  as  an  artist  at  all) , 
and  would  only  see  their  pictures  in  the  public  galleries, 
and  judge  them  in  the  fair  race  with  their  neighbours. 
This  announcement  and  conduct  of  mine  filled  all  the 
Berners  Street  and  Fitzroy  Square  district  with  terror. 

As  I  am  writing  this,  after  having  had  my  fill  of  their 
works  as  j)ublicly  exhibited,  in  the  country,  at  a  distance 
from  catalogues,  my  only  book  of  reference  being  an 
orchard  whereof  the  trees  are  now  bursting  into  full 
blossom, — it  is  probable  that  my  remarks  will  be  rather 
general  than  particular,  that  I  shall  only  discourse  about 
those  pictures  which  I  especially  remember,  or,  indeed, 
upon  any  other  point  suitable  to  my  humour  and  your 
delectation. 

I  went  round  the  galleries  with  a  young  friend  of 
mine,  who,  like  yourself  at  present,  has  been  a  student  of 
"  High  Art "  at  Rome.  He  had  been  a  pupil  of  Mon- 
sieur Ingres,  at  Paris.  He  could  draw  rude  figures  of 
eight  feet  high  to  a  nicety,  and  had  produced  many  heroic 
compositions  of  that  pleasing  class  and  size,  to  the  great 
profit  of  the  paper-stretchers  both  in  Paris  and  Rome. 
He  came  back  from  the  latter  place  a  year  since,  with 
his  beard  and  mustachios  of  course.  He  could  find  no 
room  in  all  Newman  Street  and  Soho  big  enough  to  hold 
him  and  his  genius,  and  was  turned  out  of  a  decent  house 
because,  for  the  pin*poses  of  art,  he  wished  to  batter  down 
the  partition-wall  between  the  two  drawing-rooms  he 
had.  His  great  cartoon  last  year  (whether  it  was  "  Car- 
actacus  before  Claudius,"  or  a  scene  from  the  *'  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  I  won't  say)   failed  somehow.     He  was  a 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  523 

good  deal  cut  up  by  the  defeat,  and  went  into  the  coun- 
try to  his  relations,  from  whom  he  returned  after  awhile, 
with  his  mustachios  shaved,  clean  linen,  and  other  signs 
of  depression.  He  said  (with  a  hollow  laugh)  he  should 
not  commence  on  his  great  canvas  this  year,  and  so  gave 
up  the  completion  of  his  composition  of  "  Boadicea  ad- 
dressing the  Iceni:"  quite  a  novel  subject,  which,  with 
that  ingenuity  and  profound  reading  which  distinguish 
his  brethren,  he  had  determined  to  take  up. 

Well,  sir,  this  youth  and  I  went  to  the  exhibitions  to- 
gether, and  I  watched  his  behaviour  before  the  pictures. 
At  the  tragic,  swaggering,  theatrical-historical  pictures, 
he  yawned ;  before  some  of  the  grand  flashy  landscapes, 
he  stood  without  the  least  emotion;  but  before  some 
quiet  scenes  of  humour  or  pathos,  or  some  easy  little  copy 
of  nature,  the  youth  stood  in  pleased  contemplation,  the 
nails  of  his  highlows  seemed  to  be  screwed  into  the  floor 
there,  and  his  face  dimpled  over  with  grins. 

"  These  little  pictures,"  said  he,  on  being  questioned, 
"  are  worth  a  hundred  times  more  than  the  big  ones.  In 
the  latter  you  see  signs  of  ignorance  of  every  kind,  weak- 
ness of  hand,  poverty  of  invention,  carelessness  of  draw- 
ing, lamentable  imbecility  of  thought.  Their  heroism 
is  borrowed  from  the  theatre,  their  sentiment  is  so  maud- 
lin that  it  makes  you  sick.  I  see  no  symptoms  of  thought 
or  of  minds  strong  and  genuine  enough  to  cope  with 
elevated  subjects.  No  individuality,  no  novelty,  the  de- 
cencies of  costume"  (my  friend  did  not  mean  that  the 
figures  we  were  looking  at  were  naked,  like  Mr.  Etty's, 
but  that  they  were  dressed  out  of  all  historical  propriety) 
"  are  disregarded ;  the  people  are  striking  attitudes,  as 
at  the  Coburg.  There  is  something  painful  to  me  in  this 
naive  exhibition  of  incompetency,  this  imbecility  that  is 


524  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

so  unconscious  of  its  own  failure.  If,  however,  the 
aspiring  men  don't  succeed,  the  modest  do;  and  what 
they  have  really  seen  or  experienced,  our  artists  can  de- 
pict with  successful  accuracy  and  delightful  skill. 
Hence,"  says  he,  "  I  would  sooner  have  So-and-so's  little 
sketch  ('A  Donkey  on  a  Common')  than  What-d'ye- 
call-'em's  enormous  picture  ( '  Sir  Walter  Manny  and  the 
Crusaders  discovering  Nova  Scotia ') ,  and  prefer  yonder 
unpretending  sketch,  '  Shrimp  Catchers,  Morning '  (how 
exquisitely  the  long  and  level  sands  are  touched  off !  how 
beautifully  the  morning  light  touches  the  countenances 
of  the  fishermen,  and  illumines  the  rosy  features  of  the 
shrimps!) ,  to  yonder  pretentious  illustration  from  Spen- 
ser, '  Sir  Botibol  rescues  Una  from  Sir  Uglimore  in  the 
Cave  of  the  Enchantress  Ichthyosaura.' " 

I  am  only  mentioning  another's  opinion  of  these  pic- 
tures, and  would  not  of  course,  for  my  own  part,  wish  to 
give  pain  by  provoking  comparisons  that  must  be  disa- 
greeable to  some  persons.  But  I  could  not  help  agree- 
ing with  my  young  friend  and  saying,  *'  Well,  then,  in 
the  name  of  goodness,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  only  like 
what  is  real,  and  natural,  and  unaffected — if  upon  such 
works  you  gaze  with  delight,  while  from  more  preten- 
tious performances  you  turn  away  with  weariness,  why 
the  deuce  must  you  be  in  the  heroic  vein?  Why  don't 
you  do  w^hat  you  like? "  The  young  man  turned  round 
on  the  iron  heel  of  his  highlows,  and  walked  downstairs 
clinking  them  sulkily. 

Tliere  is  a  variety  of  classes  and  divisions  into  which 
the  works  of  our  geniuses  may  be  separated.  There  are 
the  heroic  pictures,  tlie  tlieatrical-heroic,  the  religious,  the 
historical-sentimental,  the  historical-familiar,  the  namby- 
pamby,  and  so  forth. 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  525 

Among  the  heroic  pictures  of  course  JMr.  Haydon's 
ranks  the  first,  its  size  and  pretensions  call  for  that  place. 
It  roars  out  to  you  as  it  were  with  a  Titanic  voice  from 
among  all  the  competitors  to  public  favour,  "  Come  and 
look  at  me."  A  broad-shouldered,  swaggering,  hulking 
archangel,  with  those  rolling  eyes  and  distending  nostrils 
which  belong  to  the  species  of  sublime  caricature,  stands 
scowling  on  a  sphere  from  which  the  devil  is  just  descend- 
ing bound  earthwards.  Planets,  comets,  and  other  as- 
tronomical phenomena  roll  and  blaze  round  the  pair  and 
flame  in  the  new  blue  sky.  There  is  something  burly  and 
bold  in  this  resolute  genius  which  will  attack  only  enor- 
mous subjects,  which  will  deal  with  nothing  but  the  epic, 
something  respectable  even  in  the  defeats  of  such  char- 
acters. I  was  looking  the  other  day  at  Southampton  at 
a  stout  gentleman  in  a  green  coat  and  white  hat,  who  a 
year  or  two  since  fully  believed  that  he  could  walk  upon 
the  water,  and  set  off  in  the  presence  of  a  great  concourse 
of  people  upon  his  supermarine  journey.  There  is  no 
need  to  tell  you  that  the  poor  fellow  got  a  wetting  and 
sank  amidst  the  jeers  of  all  his  beholders.  I  think  some- 
how they  should  not  have  laughed  at  that  honest  duqked 
gentleman,  they  should  have  respected  the  faith  and  sim- 
plicity which  led  him  unhesitatingly  to  venture  upon  that 
watery  experiment ;  and  so,  instead  of  laughing  at  Hay- 
don,  which  you  and  I  were  just  about  to  do,  let  us  check 
our  jocularity  and  give  him  credit  for  his  great  earnest- 
ness of  purpose.  I  begin  to  find  the  world  growing  more 
pathetic  daily,  and  laugh  less  every  year  of  my  life. 
Why  laugh  at  idle  hopes,  or  vain  purposes,  or  utter 
blundering  self-confidence  ?  Let  us  be  gentle  with  them 
henceforth ;  who  knows  whether  there  may  not  be  some- 
thing of  the  sort  chez  nous?     But  I  am  wandering  from 


526  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Haydon  and  his  big  picture.  Let  us  hope  somebody 
will  buy.  Who,  I  cannot  tell :  it  will  not  do  for  a  chapel ; 
it  is  too  big  for  a  house.  I  have  it — it  might  answer  to 
hang  up  over  a  caravan  at  a  fair,  if  a  travelling  orrery 
were  exhibited  inside. 

This  may  be  sheer  impertinence  and  error ;  the  picture 
may  suit  some  tastes — it  does  the  Times  for  instance, 
which  pronounces  it  to  be  a  noble  work  of  the  highest 
art;  whereas  the  Post  won't  believe  a  bit,  and  passes  it 
by  with  scorn.  What  a  comfort  it  is  that  there  are  dif- 
ferent tastes  then,  and  that  almost  all  artists  have  thus 
a  chance  of  getting  a  livelihood  somehow!  There  is 
JVIartin,  for  another  instance,  with  his  brace  of  pictures 
about  Adam  and  Eve,  which  I  would  venture  to  place  in 
the  theatrical-heroic  class.  One  looks  at  those  strange 
pieces  and  wonders  how  people  can  be  found  to  admire, 
and  yet  they  do.  Grave  old  people,  with  chains  and 
seals,  look  dumbfoundered  into  those  vast  perspectives, 
and  think  the  apex  of  the  sublime  is  reached  there.  In 
one  of  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  novels  there  is  a  passage  to 
that  effect.  I  forget  where,  but  there  is  a  new  edition 
of  them  coming  out  in  single  volumes,  and  I  am  positive 
you  will  find  the  sentiment  somewhere ;  they  come  up  to 
his  conceptions  of  the  sublime,  they  answer  to  his  ideas 
of  beauty,  or  the  Beautiful  as  he  writes  it  with  a  large  B. 
He  is  himself  an  artist  and  a  man  of  genius.  What  right 
have  we  poor  devils  to  question  such  an  authority?  Do 
you  recollect  how  we  used  to  laugh  in  the  Capitol  at  the 
Domenichino  Sibyl  whicli  this  same  author  praises  so 
enthusiastically?  a  wooden,  pink-faced,  goggle-eyed, 
ogling  creature,  we  said  it  was,  with  no  more  beauty  or 
sentiment  than  a  wax  doll.  But  this  was  our  conceit, 
dear  Au gusto.    On  subjects  of  art,  perhaps,  there  is  no 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  527 

reasoning  after  all :  or  who  can  tell  why  children  have  a 
passion  for  lollipops,  and  this  man  worships  beef  while 
t'other  adores  mutton?  To  the  child  lollipops  may  be 
the  truthful  and  beautiful,  and  why  should  not  some 
men  find  Martin's  pictures  as  much  to  their  taste  as 
Milton. 

Another  instance  of  the  blessed  variety  of  tastes  may 
be  mentioned  here  advantageously:  while,  as  you  have 
seen,  the  Times  awards  the  palm  to  Haydon,  and  Sir 
Lytton  exalts  INIartin  as  the  greatest  painter  of  the 
English  school,  the  Chronicle,  quite  as  well  informed, 
no  doubt,  says  that  Mr.  Eddis  is  the  great  genius  of  the 
present  season,  and  that  his  picture  of  Moses's  mother 
parting  with  him  before  leaving  him  in  the  bulrushes  is 
a  great  and  noble  composition. 

This  critic  must  have  a  taste  for  the  neat  and  agree- 
able, that  is  clear.  ]Mr.  Eddis's  picture  is  nicely  col- 
oured; the  figures  in  fine  clean  draperies,  the  sky  a 
bright  clean  colour;  ]\Ioses's  mother  is  a  handsome  wo- 
man ;  and  as  she  holds  her  child  to  her  breast  for  the  last 
time,  and  lifts  up  her  fine  eyes  to  heaven,  the  beholder 
may  be  reasonably  moved  by  a  decent  bourgeois  com- 
passion; a  handsome  woman  parting  from  her  child  is 
always  an  object  of  proper  sympathy;  but  as  for  the 
greatness  of  the  picture  as  a  work  of  art,  that  is  an- 
other question  of  tastes  again.  This  picture  seemed  to  me 
to  be  essentially  a  prose  composition,  not  a  poetical  one. 
It  tells  you  no  more  than  you  can  see.  It  has  no  more 
wonder  or  poetry  about  it  than  a  police-report  or  a  news- 
paper paragraph,  and  should  be  placed,  as  I  take  it,  in 
the  historic-sentimental  school,  which  is  pretty  much  fol- 
lowed in  England— nay,  as  close  as  possible  to  the  nam- 
by-pamby quarter. 


528  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

Of  the  latter  sort  there  are  some  illustrious  examples ; 
and  as  it  is  the  fashion  for  critics  to  award  prizes,  I  would 
for  my  part  cheerfully  award  the  prize  of  a  new  silver 
teaspoon  to  Mr.  Redgrave,  the  champion  of  suffering 
female  innocence,  for  his  "  Governess."  That  picture  is 
more  decidedly  spoony  than,  perhaps,  any  other  of  this 
present  season:  and  the  subject  seems  to  be  a  favourite 
with  the  artist.  We  have  had  the  "  Governess  "  one  year 
before,  or  a  variation  of  her  under  the  name  of  the 
"  Teacher,"  or  vice  versa.  The  Teacher's  young  pupils 
are  at  play  in  the  garden,  she  sits  sadly  in  the  school- 
room; there  she  sits,  poor  dear! — the  piano  is  open  be- 
side her,  and  (oh,  harrowing  thought!)  "Home,  sweet 
home!"  is  open  in  the  music-book.  She  sits  and  thinks 
of  that  dear  place,  with  a  sheet  of  black-edged  note-pa- 
per in  her  hand.  They  have  brought  her  her  tea  and 
bread  and  butter  on  a  tray.  She  has  drunk  the  tea,  she 
has  not  tasted  the  bread  and  butter.  There  is  pathos  for 
you!  there  is  art!  This  is,  indeed,  a  love  for  lollipops 
with  a  vengeance,  a  regular  babyhood  of  taste,  about 
which  a  man  with  a  manly  stomach  may  be  allowed  to 
protest  a  little  peevishly,  and  implore  the  public  to  give 
up  such  puling  food. 

There  is  a  gentleman  in  the  Octagon  Room  who,  to  be 
sure,  runs  Mr.  Redgrave  rather  hard,  and  shoulu  have  a 
silver  papspoon  at  any  rate,  if  the  teaspoon  is  irrevocablj'- 
awarded  to  his  rival.  The  Octagon  Room  prize  is  a  pic- 
ture called  the  "  Arrival  of  the  Overland  Mail."  A  lady 
is  in  her  bedchamber,  a  portrait  of  her  husband,  Major 
Jones  (cherished  lord  of  that  bridal  apartment,  with  its 
(lra})-curtained  bed),  hangs  on  the  wainscot  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  you  see  his  red  coat  and  mustachios  gleaming 
there  between  the  wardrobe  and  the  washhand-stand. 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  529 

But  where  is  his  lady?  She  is  on  her  knees  by  the  bed- 
side, her  face  has  sunk  into  the  feather-bed;  her  hands 
are  clasped  agonisingly  together;  a  most  tremendous 
black-edged  letter  has  just  arrived  by  the  overland  mail. 
It  is  all  up  with  Jones.  Well,  let  us  hope  she  will  marry 
again,  and  get  over  her  grief  for  poor  J. 

Is  there  not  something  naive  and  simple  in  this  down- 
right way  of  exciting  compassion?  I  saw  people  look- 
ing at  this  i^air  of  pictures  evidently  with  yearning 
hearts.  The  great  geniuses  who  invented  them  have  not, 
you  see,  toiled  in  vain.  They  can  command  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  public,  they  have  gained  Art-Union  prizes 
let  us  hope,  as  well  as  those  humble  imaginary  ones  which 
I  have  just  awarded,  and  yet  my  heart  is  not  naturally 
hard,  though  it  refuses  to  be  moved  by  such  means  as 
are  here  employed. 

If  the  simple  statement  of  a  death  is  to  harrow  up  the 
feelings,  or  to  claim  the  tributary  tear,  mon  Dieu!  a  man 
ought  to  howl  every  morning  over  the  newsj^aper  obitu- 
ary. If  we  are  to  cry  for  every  governess  who  leaves 
home,  what  a  fund  of  pathos  the  Twies  advertisements 
would  afford  daily ;  we  might  weep  down  whole  columns 
of  close  type.  I  have  said  before  I  am  growing  more 
inclined  to  the  pathetic  daily,  but  let  us  in  the  name  of 
goodness  make  a  stand  somewhere,  or  the  namby-pamby 
of  the  world  will  become  unendurable ;  and  we  shall  melt 
aw^ay  in  a  deluge  of  blubber.  This  drivelling  hysterical 
sentimentality  it  is  surely  the  critic's  duty  to  grin  down, 
to  shake  any  man  roughly  by  the  shoulder  who  seems 
dangerously  affected  by  it,  and,  not  sparing  his  feelings 
in  the  least,  tell  him  he  is  a  fool  for  his  pains ;  to  have  no 
more  respect  for  those  who  invent  it,  but  expose  their 
error  with  all  the  downrightness  that  is  necessary. 


530  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

By  far  the  prettiest  of  the  maudlin  pictures  is  Mr. 
Stone's  "  Premier  Pas."  It  is  that  old,  pretty,  rococo, 
fantastic  Jenny  and  Jessamy  couple,  whose  loves  the 
painter  has  been  chronicling  any  time  these  five  years, 
and  whom  he  has  spied  out  at  various  wells,  porches,  &c. 
The  lad  is  making  love  with  all  his  might,  and  the 
maiden  is  in  a  pretty  confusion — her  heart  flutters,  and 
she  only  seems  to  spin.  She  drinks  in  the  warm  words 
of  the  young  fellow  with  a  pleasant  conviction  of  the 
invincibility  of  her  charms.  He  appeals  nervously,  and 
tugs  at  a  pink  which  is  growing  up  the  porch-side.  It  is 
that  pink,  somehow,  which  has  saved  the  picture  from 
being  decidedly  namby-pamby.  There  is  something 
new,  fresh,  and  delicate  about  the  little  incident  of  the 
flower.  It  redeems  Jenny,  and  renders  that  young  prig 
Jessamy  bearable.  The  picture  is  very  nicely  painted, 
according  to  the  careful  artist's  wont.  The  neck  and 
hands  of  the  girl  are  especially  pretty.  The  lad's  face  is 
effeminate  and  imbecile,  but  his  velveteen  breeches  are 
painted  with  great  vigour  and  strength. 

This  artist's  picture  of  the  "  Queen  and  Ophelia  "  is 
in  a  much  higher  walk  of  art.  There  may  be  doubts 
about  Ophelia.  She  is  too  pretty  to  my  taste.  Her  dress 
(especially  the  black  bands  round  her  arms)  too  elabo- 
rately conspicuous  and  coquettish.  The  Queen  is  a 
noble  dramatic  head  and  attitude.  Ophelia  seems  to  be 
looking  at  us,  the  audience,  and  in  a  pretty  attitude  ex- 
pressly to  captivate  us.  The  Queen  is  only  thinking 
about  the  crazed  girl,  and  Hamlet,  and  her  own  gloomy 
aff*airs,  and  has  quite  forgotten  her  own  noble  beauty 
and  superb  presence.  The  colour  of  the  picture  struck 
me  as  quite  new,  sedate,  but  bright  and  very  agreeable; 
the  chequered  light  and  shadow  is  made  cleverly  to  aid 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  531 

in  forming  the  composition;  it  is  very  picturesque  and 
good.  It  is  by  far  the  best  of  INIr.  Stone's  works,  and  in 
the  best  hne.  Good-bye,  Jenny  and  Jessamy;  we  hope 
never  to  see  you  again — no  more  rococo  rustics,  no  more 
namby-pamby:  the  man  who  can  paint  the  Queen  of 
"  Hamlet "  must  forsake  henceforth  such  fiddle-faddle 
company. 

By  the  way,  has  any  Shakspearian  commentator  ever 
remarked  how  fond  the  Queen  really  was  of  her  second 
husband,  the  excellent  Claudius?  How  courteous  and 
kind  the  latter  was  always  towards  her?  So  excellent  a 
family-man  ought  to  be  pardoned  a  few  errors  in  con- 
sideration of  his  admirable  behaviour  to  his  wife.  He 
did  go  a  little  far,  certainly,  but  then  it  was  to  possess  a 
jewel  of  a  woman. 

More  pictures  indicating  a  fine  appreciation  of  the 
tragic  sentiment  are  to  be  found  in  the  exhibition. 
Among  them  may  be  mentioned  specially  ]Mr.  Johnson's 
picture  of  "  Lord  Russell  taking  the  Communion  in 
Prison  before  Execution."  The  story  is  finely  told  here, 
the  group  large  and  noble.  The  figure  of  the  kneeling 
wife,  who  looks  at  her  husband  meekly  engaged  in  the 
last  sacred  office,  is  very  good  indeed ;  and  the  little  epi- 
sode of  the  gaoler,  who  looks  out  into  the  yard  indiffer- 
ent, seems  to  me  to  give  evidence  of  a  true  dramatic 
genius.  In  "Hamlet,"  how  those  indifferent  remarks 
of  Guildenstern  and  Rosencrantz,  at  the  end,  bring  out 
the  main  figures  and  deepen  the  surrounding  gloom  of 
the  tragedy. 

In  INIr.  Frith's  admirable  picture  of  the  "  Good  Pas- 
tor," from  Goldsmith,  there  is  some  sentiment  of  a  very 
quiet,  refined,  Sir  Roger-de-Coverley-like  sort — not  too 
much  of  it— it  is  indicated  rather  than  expressed.    "  Sen- 


532  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

timent,  sir,"  Walker  of  the  "  Original "  used  to  say— 
"sentiment,  sir,  is  like  garlic  in  made  dishes:  it  should 
be  felt  everywhere  and  seen  nowhere." 

Now,  I  won't  say  that  Mr.  Frith's  sentiment  is  like 
garlic,  or  provoke  any  other  savoury  comparison  regard- 
ing it;  but  say,  in  a  word,  this  is  one  of  the  pictures  1 
would  like  to  have  sent  abroad  to  be  exhibited  at  a  Euro- 
pean congress  of  painters,  to  show  what  an  English 
artist  can  do.  The  young  painter  seems  to  me  to  have 
had  a  thorough  comprehension  of  his  subject  and  his 
own  abilities.  And  what  a  rare  quality  is  this,  to  know 
what  you  can  do!  An  ass  will  go  and  take  the  grand 
historic  walk,  while,  with  lowly  wisdom,  Mr.  Frith  pre- 
fers the  lowly  path  where  there  are  plenty  of  flowers 
growing,  and  children  prattling  along  the  walks.  This 
is  the  sort  of  picture  that  is  good  to  paint  nowadays — 
kindly,  beautiful,  inspiring  delicate  sympathies,  and 
awakening  tender  good-humour.  It  is  a  comfort  to 
have  such  a  comj)anion  as  that  in  a  study  to  look  up  at 
w^hen  your  eyes  are  tired  with  work,  and  to  refresh  you 
with  its  gentle  quiet  good-fellowship.  I  can  see  it  now, 
as  I  shut  my  own  eyes,  displayed  faithfully  on  the 
camera  obscura  of  the  brain — the  dear  old  parson  with 
his  congregation  of  old  and  young  clustered  round  him ; 
the  little  ones  plucking  him  by  the  gown,  with  wonder- 
ing eyes,  half -roguery,  half -terror;  the  smoke  is  curling 
up  from  tlie  cottage  chimneys  in  a  peaceful  Sabbath  sort 
of  way;  tlie  three  village  quidnuncs  are  chattering  to- 
gether at  the  churchyard  stile ;  there's  a  poor  girl  seated 
there  on  a  stone,  who  has  been  crossed  in  love  evidently, 
and  looks  anxiously  to  the  parson  for  a  little  doubtful 
consolation.  That's  the  real  sort  of  sentiment— there's 
no  need  of  a  great,  clumsy,  black-edged  letter  to  placard 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  533 

her  misery,  as  it  were,  after  JNIr.  Redgrave's  fashion ;  the 
sentiment  is  only  the  more  sincere  for  being  unobtrusive, 
and  the  spectator  gives  his  compassion  the  more  readily 
because  the  unfortunate  object  makes  no  coarse  de- 
mands upon  his  pity. 

The  painting  of  this  picture  is  exceedingly  clever  and 
dexterous.  One  or  two  of  the  foremost  figures  are 
painted  with  the  breadth  and  pearly  delicacy  of  Greuze. 
The  three  village  politicians,  in  the  background,  might 
have  been  touched  by  Teniers,  so  neat,  brisk,  and  sharp 
is  the  execution  of  the  artist's  facile  brush. 

]Mr.  Frost  (a  new  name,  I  think,  in  the  catalogue)  has 
given  us  a  picture  of  "  Sabrina,"  which  is  so  pretty  that 
I  heartih^  hope  it  has  not  been  purchased  for  the  collec- 
tion from  "  Comus,"  which  adorns  the  Buckingham 
Palace  summer-house.  It  is  w^orthy  of  a  better  place 
and  price  than  our  royal  patrons  appear  to  be  disposed 
to  give  for  the  works  of  English  artists.  What  victims 
have  those  poor  fellows  been  of  this  awful  patronage! 
Great  has  been  the  commotion  in  the  pictorial  w^orld, 
dear  Augusto,  regarding  the  fate  of  those  frescoes  which 
royalty  was  pleased  to  order,  which  it  condescended  to 
purchase  at  a  price  that  no  poor  amateur  would  have  the 
face  to  offer.  Think  of  the  greatest  patronage  in  the 
W'orld  giving  forty  pounds  for  pictures  worth  four  hun- 
dred— condescending  to  buy  works  from  humble  men 
who  could  not  refuse,  and  paying  for  them  below  their 
value!  Think  of  august  powers  and  principalities  or- 
dering the  works  of  such  a  great  man  as  Etty  to  be 
hacked  out  of  the  palace  wall— that  w^as  a  slap  in  the 
face  to  every  artist  in  England;  and  I  can  agree  with 
the  conclusion  come  to  by  an  indignant  poet  of  Punch's 
band,  who  says,  for  his  part: — 


584  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

"  I  will  not  toil  for  Queen  and  crown, 
If  princely  patrons  spurn  me  down ; 
I  will  not  ask  for  royal  job — 
Let  my  Maecenas  be  a  snob  ! " 

This  is,  however,  a  delicate,  an  awful  subject,  over 
which  loyal  subjects  like  you  and  I  had  best  mourn  in  si- 
lence; but  the  fate  of  Etty's  noble  picture  of  last  year 
made  me  tremble  lest  Frost  should  be  similarly  nipped : 
and  I  hope  more  genuine  patronage  for  this  promising 
young  painter.  His  picture  is  like  a  mixture  of  a  very 
good  Hilton  and  Howard  raised  to  a  state  of  genius. 
There  is  sameness  in  the  heads,  but  great  grace  and 
beauty — a  fine  sweeping  movement  in  the  composition  of 
the  beautiful  fairj'-  figures,  undulating  gracefully 
through  the  stream,  while  the  lilies  lie  gracefully  over- 
head. There  is  another  submarine  picture  of  "  Nymphs 
cajoling  young  Hylas,"  which  contains  a  great  deal  of 
very  clever  imitations  of  Boucher. 

That  youthful  Goodall,  whose  early  attempts  prom- 
ised so  much,  is  not  quite  realising  those  promises  I  think, 
and  is  cajoled,  like  Hylas  before  mentioned,  by  danger- 
ous beauty.  His  "  Connemara  Girls  going  to  Market " 
are  a  vast  deal  too  clean  and  pretty  for  such  females. 
They  laugh  and  simper  in  much  too  genteel  a  manner; 
they  are  washing  such  pretty  white  feet  as  I  don't  think 
are  common  about  Leenane  or  Ballynahinch,  and  would 
be  better  at  ease  in  white  satin  slippers  than  trudging  up 
Croaghj^atrick.  There  is  a  luxury  of  geographical 
knowledge  for  you !  I  have  not  done  with  it  yet.  Stop 
till  we  come  to  Roberts's  "  View  of  Jerusalem,"  and 
Muller's  pictures  of  "Rhodes,"  and  "Xanthus,"  and 
"  Telmessus."  This  artist's  sketches  are  excellent;  like 
nature,  and  like  Decami:»s,  that  best  of  painters  of  Ori- 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  535 

ental  life  and  colours.  In  the  pictures  the  artist  forgets 
the  brilliancy  of  colour  which  is  so  conspicuous  in  his 
sketches,  and  "  Telmessus  "  looks  as  grey  and  hea^y  as 
Dover  in  March. 

Mr.  Pickersgill  (not  the  Academician,  by  any  means) 
deserves  great  praise  for  two  very  poetical  pieces;  one 
from  Spenser,  I  think  ( Sir  Botibol,  let  us  say,  as  before, 
with  somebody  in  some  hag's  cave)  ;  another  called  the 
"  Four  Ages,"  which  has  still  better  grace  and  sentiment. 
This  artist,  too,  is  evidently  one  of  the  disciples  of  Hil- 
ton ;  and  another,  who  has  also,  as  it  seems  to  me,  studied 
with  advantage  that  graceful  and  agreeable  English 
painter,  ]Mr.  Hook,  whose  "  Song  of  the  Olden  Time  " 
is  hung  up  in  the  Octagon  Closet,  and  makes  a  sunshine 
in  that  exceedingly  shady  place.  The  female  figure  is 
faulty,  but  charming  (many  charmers  have  their  little 
faults,  it  is  said)  ;  the  old  bard  who  is  singing  the  song  of 
the  olden  time  a  most  venerable,  agreeable,  and  hand- 
some old  minstrel.  In  Alnaschar-like  moods  a  man  fan- 
cies himself  a  noble  patron,  and  munificent  rewarder  of 
artists;  in  which  case  I  should  like  to  possess  myself  of 
the  works  of  these  two  young  men,  and  give  them  four 

times  as  large  a  price  as  the gave  for  pictures  five 

times  as  good  as  theirs. 

I  supi^ose  ]Mr.  Eastlake's  composition  from  "  Comus  " 
is  the  contribution  in  which  he  has  been  mulcted,  in  com- 
pany with  his  celebrated  brother  artists,  for  the  famous 
Buckingham  Palace  pavilion.  Working  for  nothing  is 
very  well:  but  to  work  for  a  good,  honest,  remunerative 
price  is,  perhaps,  the  best  way,  after  all.  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  the  artist's  courage  has  failed  him  over  his 
"  Comus  "  picture.  Tim^e  and  pains  he  has  given,  that  is 
quite  evident.    The  picture  is  prodigiously  laboured,  and 


536  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

liatched,  and  tickled  up  with  a  Chinese  minuteness;  but 
there  is  a  woeful  lack  of  vis  in  the  work.  That  poor  la- 
bourer has  kept  hLs  promise,  has  worked  the  given  num- 
ber of  hours ;  but  he  has  had  no  food  all  the  while,  and 
has  executed  his  job  in  a  somewhat  faint  manner.  This 
face  of  the  lady  is  pure  and  beautiful ;  but  we  have  seen 
it  at  any  time  these  ten  years,  with  its  red  transparent 
shadows,  its  mouth  in  which  butter  wouldn't  melt,  and  its 
beautiful  brown-madder  hair.  She  is  getting  rather 
tedious,  that  sweet  irreproachable  creature,  that  is  the 
fact.  She  may  be  an  angel;  but  sky-blue,  my  wicked 
senses  tell  me,  is  a  feeble  sort  of  drink,  and  men  require 
stronger  nourishment. 

Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  is  a  prim,  mystic,  cruciform 
composition.  The  lady  languishes  in  the  middle;  an 
angel  is  consoling  her,  and  embracing  her  with  an  arm 
out  of  joint;  little  rows  of  cherubs  stand  on  each  side  the 
angels  and  the  lady, — wonderful  little  children,  with 
blue  or  brown  beady  eyes,  and  sweet  little  flossy  curly 
hair,  and  no  muscles  or  bones,  as  becomes  such  super- 
natural beings,  no  doubt.  I  have  seen  similar  little 
darlings  in  the  toy-shops  in  the  Lowther  Arcade  for  a 
shilling,  with  just  such  pink  cheeks  and  round  eyes, 
their  bodies  formed  out  of  cotton-wool,  and  their  ex- 
tremities veiled  in  silver  paper.  Well ;  it  is  as  well,  per- 
haps, that  Etty's  jovial  nymphs  should  not  come  into 
such  a  company.  Good  Lord!  how  they  would  aston- 
ish the  weak  nerves  of  Mr.  Eastlake's  precieuse  j^oung 
lady! 

Quite  imabashed  by  the  squeamishness  exhibited  in 
the  highest  quarter  (as  the  newspapers  call  it) ,  Mr.  Etty 
goes  on  rejoicing  in  his  old  fashion.  Perhaps  he  is  worse 
than  ever  this  year,  and  despises  nee  dulees  amoves  nee 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  537 

choreas,  because  certain  great  personages  are  offended. 
Perhaps,  this  year,  his  ladies  and  Cupids  are  a  Httle 
hasardes;  his  Venuses  expand  more  than  ever  in  the  hne 
of  Hottentot  beauty ;  his  drawing  and  colouring  are  still 
more  audacious  thanthey  were;  patches  of  red  shine  on  the 
cheeks  of  his  blowsy  nymphs !  his  idea  of  form  goes  to  the 
verge  of  monstrosity.  If  you  look  at  the  pictures  closely 
(and,  considering  all  things,  it  requires  some  courage  to 
do  so) ,  the  forms  disappear ;  feet  and  hands  are  scumbled 
away,  and  distances  appear  to  be  dabs  and  blotches  of 
lake,  and  brown  and  ultramarine.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  some  of  these  pictures  would  not  be  suitable  to  hang 
up  everywhere — in  a  young  ladies'  school,  for  instance. 
But,  how  rich  and  superb  is  the  colour !  Did  Titian  paint 
better,  or  Rubens  as  well?  There  is  a  nympli  and  child 
in  the  left  corner  of  the  Great  Room,  sitting,  without 
the  slightest  fear  of  catching  cold,  in  a  sort  of  moonlight, 
of  which  the  colour  appears  to  me  to  be  as  rich  and  won- 
derful as  Titian's  best — "  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  for  in- 
stance—  and  better  than  Rubens's.  There  is  a  little  head 
of  a  boy  in  a  blue  dress  (for  once  in  a  way)  which  kills 
every  picture  in  the  room,  out-stares  all  the  red-coated 
generals,  out-blazes  ISIrs.  Thwaites  and  her  diamonds 
(who  has  the  place  of  honour)  ;  and  has  that  unmistak- 
able, inestimable,  indescribable  mark  of  the  Great 
painter  about  it,  which  makes  the  soul  of  a  man  kindle  up 
as  he  sees  it  and  owns  that  there  is  Genius.  How  de- 
lightful it  is  to  feel  that  shock,  and  how  few  are  the 
works  of  art  that  can  give  it ! 

The  author  of  that  sibylline  book  of  mystic  rhymes, 
the  unrevealed  bard  of  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope,"  is  as 
great  as  usual,  vibrating  between  the  absurd  and  the 
sublime,  until  the  eye  grows  dazzled  in  watching  him, 


538  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

and  can't  really  tell  in  what  region  he  is.  If  Etty's 
colour  is  wild  and  mysterious,  looking  here  as  if  smeared 
with  the  finger,  and  there  with  the  palette-knife,  what 
can  be  said  about  Turner?  Go  up  and  look  at  one  of 
his  pictures,  and  you  laugh  at  yourself  and  at  him,  and 
at  the  picture,  and  that  wonderful  amateur  who  is  in- 
variably found  to  give  a  thousand  pounds  for  it,  or  more 
—some  sum  wild,  prodigious,  unheard-of,  monstrous, 
like  the  picture  itself.  All  about  the  author  of  the  "  Fal- 
lacies of  Hope"  is  a  mysterious  extravaganza:  price, 
poem,  purchaser,  picture.  Look  at  the  latter  for  a  little 
time,  and  it  begins  to  affect  you  too— to  mesmerise  you. 
It  is  revealed  to  you;  and  as  it  is  said  in  the  East  the 
magicians  make  children  see  the  sultauns,  carpet-bear- 
ers, tents,  &c.,  in  a  spot  of  ink  in  their  hands,  so  the 
magician  Joseph  INIallord  makes  you  see  what  he  likes 
on  a  board  that  to  the  first  view  is  merely  dabbed  over 
with  occasional  streaks  of  yellow,  and  flicked  here  and 
there  Avith  vermilion.  The  vermilion  blotches  become 
little  boats  full  of  harpooners  and  gondolas  with  a  deal 
of  music  going  on  on  board.  That  is  not  a  smear  of  pur- 
ple you  see  yonder,  but  a  beautiful  whale,  whose  tail  has 
just  slapped  a  half-dozen  whale-boats  into  perdition; 
and  as  for  what  you  fancied  to  be  a  few  zig-zag  lines 
spattered  on  the  canvas  at  haphazard,  look!  they  turn  out 
to  be  a  ship  with  all  her  sails ;  the  captain  and  his  crew  are 
clearly  visible  in  the  ship's  bows :  and  you  may  distinctly 
see  the  oil  casks  getting  ready  under  the  superinten- 
dence of  that  man  with  the  red  whiskers  and  the  cast  in 
his  eye;  who  is,  of  course,  the  chief  mate.  In  a  word,  I 
say  that  Turner  is  a  great  and  awful  mystery  to  me.  I 
don't  like  to  contemplate  him  too  much,  lest  I  should 
actually  begin  to  believe  in  his  poetry  as  well  as  his 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  539 

paintings,  and  fancy  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope "  to  be 
one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  world. 

Now  Stanfield  has  no  mysticism  or  oracularity  about 
him.  You  can  see  what  he  means  at  once.  His  style  is 
as  simple  and  manly  as  a  seaman's  song.  One  of  the 
most  dexterous,  he  is  also  one  of  the  most  careful  of 
painters.  Ever}^  j^ear  his  works  are  more  elaborated, 
and  you  are  surprised  to  find  a  progress  in  an  artist  w^ho 
had  seemed  to  reach  his  acme  before.  His  battle  of  frig- 
ates this  j'ear  is  a  brilliant  sparkling  pageant  of  naval 
war;  his  great  picture  of  the  "]Mole  of  Ancona,"  fresh, 
healthy,  and  bright  as  breeze  and  sea  can  make  it.  There 
are  better  pieces  still  by  this  painter,  to  my  mind;  one 
in  the  first  room,  especially, — a  Dutch  landscape,  with  a 
warm  sunny  tone  upon  it,  worthy  of  Cuyp  and  Callcott. 
Who  is  G.  Stanfield,  an  exhibitor,  and  evidently  a  pupil 
of  the  Royal  Academician  ?  Can  it  be  a  son  of  that  gent  ? 
If  so,  the  father  has  a  worthy  heir  to  his  name  and 
honours.  G.  Stanfield's  Dutch  picture  may  be  looked 
at  by  the  side  of  his  father's. 

Roberts  has  also  distinguished  himself  and  advanced 
in  skill,  great  as  his  care  had  been  and  pow-erful  his  ef- 
fects before.  "  The  Ruins  of  Karnac  "  is  the  most  poet- 
ical of  this  painter's  works,  I  think.  A  vast  and  awful 
scene  of  gloomy  Egyptian  ruin!  the  sun  lights  up  tre- 
mendous lines  of  edifices,  which  were  only  parts  for- 
merly of  the  enormous  city  of  the  hundred  gates;  long 
lines  of  camels  come  over  the  reddening  desert,  and 
camps  are  set  by  the  side  of  the  glowing  pools.  This  is 
a  good  picture  to  gaze  at,  and  to  fill  your  eyes  and 
thoughts  with  grandiose  ideas  of  Eastern  life. 

This  gentleman's  large  picture  of  "  Jerusalem  "  did 
not  satisfy  me  so  much.     It  is  yet  very  faithful;  any- 


540  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

body  who  has  visited  this  place  must  see  the  careful  fidel- 
ity with  which  the  artist  has  mapped  the  rocks  and  val- 
leys, and  laid  down  the  lines  of  the  buildings;  but  the 
picture  has,  to  my  eyes,  too  green  and  trim  a  look;  the 
mosques  and  houses  look  fresh  and  new,  instead  of  being 
mouldering,  old,  sunbaked  edifices  of  glaring  stone  ris- 
ing amidst  wretchedness  and  ruin.  There  is  not,  to  my 
mind,  that  sad  fatal  aspect,  which  the  city  presents  from 
whatever  quarter  you  view  it,  and  which  haunts  a  man 
who  has  seen  it  ever  after  with  an  impression  of  terror. 
Perhaps  in  the  spring  for  a  little  while,  at  which  season 
the  sketch  for  this  picture  was  painted,  the  country 
round  about  may  look  very  cheerful.  When  we  saw  it 
in  autumn,  the  mountains  that  stand  round  about  Jeru- 
salem were  not  green,  but  ghastly  piles  of  hot  rock, 
patched  here  and  there  with  yellow  weedy  herbage.  A 
cactus  or  a  few  bleak  olive-trees  made  up  the  vegetation 
of  the  wretched  gloomy  landscape;  whereas  in  Mr. 
Roberts's  picture  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat  looks  like  a 
glade  in  a  park,  and  the  hills,  up  to  the  gates,  are  car- 
peted with  verdure. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  Jerusalem,  here  may  be  men- 
tioned with  praise  Mr.  Hart's  picture  of  a  Jewish  cere- 
mony, with  a  Hebrew  name  I  have  forgotten.  This 
piece  is  exceedingly  bright  and  pleasing  in  colour,  odd 
and  novel  as  a  representation  of  manners  and  costume, 
a  striking  and  agreeable  picture.  I  don't  think  as  much 
can  be  said  for  the  same  artist's  "  Sir  Thomas  More 
going  to  Execution."  Miss  More  is  crying  on  papa's 
neck,  pa  looks  up  to  heaven,  halberdiers  look  fierce,  &c., 
all  the  regular  adjuncts  and  property  of  pictorial  trag- 
edy are  here  brought  into  play.  But  noliody  cares,  that 
is  the  fact;  and  one  fancies  the  designer  himself  cannot 


PICTURE  GOSSIP  541 

have  cared  much  for  the  orthodox  historical  group  whose 
misfortunes  he  was  depicting. 

These  pictures  are  hke  boys'  hexameters  at  school. 
Every  lad  of  decent  parts  in  the  sixth  form  has  a  knack 
of  turning  out  great  quantities  of  respectable  verse, 
without  blunders,  and  with  scarce  any  mental  labour; 
but  these  verses  are  not  the  least  like  poetry,  any  more 
than  the  great  Academical  paintings  of  the  artists  are 
like  great  painting.  You  want  something  more  than  a 
composition,  and  a  set  of  costumes  and  figures  decently 
posed  and  studied.  If  these  were  all,  for  instance,  ]SIr. 
Charles  Landseer's  picture  of  "  Charles  I.  before  the 
Battle  of  Edge  Hill"  would  be  a  good  work  of  art. 
Charles  stands  at  a  tree  before  the  inn-door,  officers  are 
round  about,  the  little  princes  are  playing  with  a  little 
dog,  as  becomes  their  youth  and  innocence,  rows  of  sol- 
diers appear  in  red  coats,  nobody  seems  to  have  anything 
particular  to  do,  except  the  royal  martyr,  who  is  looking 
at  a  bone  of  ham  that  a  girl  out  of  the  inn  has  hold  of. 

Now  this  is  all  very  w^ell,  but  you  want  something 
more  than  this  in  an  historic  picture,  which  should  have 
its  parts,  characters,  varieties,  and  climax  like  a  drama. 
You  don't  want  the  Deus  intersit  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  look  at  a  knuckle  of  ham;  and  here  is  a  piece 
well  composed  and  (bating  a  little  want  of  life  in  the 
figures)  well  drawn,  brightty  and  pleasantly  painted, 
as  all  this  artist's  works  are,  all  the  parts  and  accessories 
studied  and  executed  with  care  and  skill,  and  yet  mean- 
ing nothing — the  part  of  Hamlet  omitted.  The  King 
in  this  attitude  (with  the  baton  in  his  hand,  simpering 
at  the  bacon  aforesaid)  has  no  more  of  the  heroic  in  him 
than  the  pork  he  contemplates,  and  he  deserves  to  lose 
every  battle  he  fights.     I  prefer  the  artist's  other  still- 


542  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

life  pictures  to  this.    He  has  a  couple  more,  professedly  so 
called,  very  cleverly  executed  and  capital  cabinet  pieces. 

Strange  to  say,  I  have  not  one  picture  to  remark  upon 
taken  from  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  Mr.  Ward  has  a 
very  good  Hogarthian  work,  with  some  little  extrava- 
gance and  caricature,  representing  Johnson  waiting  in 
Lord  Chesterfield's  antechamber,  among  a  crowd  of 
hangers-on  and  petitioners,  who  are  sulky,  or  yawning, 
or  neglected,  while  a  pretty  Italian  singer  comes  out, 
having  evidently  had  a  very  satisfactory  interview  with 
his  lordship,  and  who  (to  lose  no  time)  is  arranging 
another  rendezvous  with  another  admirer.  This  story 
is  very  well,  coarsely,  and  humorously  told,  and  is  as  racy 
as  a  chapter  out  of  Smollett.  There  is  a  yawning  chap- 
lain, whose  head  is  full  of  humour;  and  a  pathetic  epi- 
sode of  a  widow  and  pretty  child,  in  which  the  artist  has 
not  succeeded  so  well. 

There  is  great  delicacy  and  beauty  in  Mr.  Herbert's 
picture  of  "  Pope  Gregory  teaching  Children  to  Sing." 
His  Holiness  lies  on  his  sofa  languidly  beating  time  over 
his  book.  He  does  not  look  strong  enough  to  use  the 
scourge  in  his  hands,  and  with  which  the  painter  says  he 
used  to  correct  his  little  choristers.  Two  ghostly  aides- 
de-camp  in  the  shape  of  worn,  handsome,  shaven,  ascetic 
friars,  stand  behind  the  pontiff  demurely;  and  all  the 
choristers  are  in  full  song,  with  their  mouths  as  wide 
open  as  a  nest  of  j'-oung  birds  when  the  mother  comes. 
The  painter  seems  to  me  to  have  acquired  the  true  spirit 
of  the  middle-age  devotion.  All  his  works  have  unction; 
and  the  prim,  subdued,  ascetic  face,  which  forms  the 
charm  and  mystery  of  the  missal-illuminations,  and 
which  has  operated  to  convert  some  imaginative  minds 
from  the  new  to  the  old  faith. 


PICTURE    GOSSIP  543 

And,  by  way  of  a  wonder,  behold  a  devotional 
j^icture  from  Mr.  Edwin  Landseer,  "  A  Shepherd  Pray- 
ing at  a  Cross  in  the  Fields."  I  suppose  the  Sabbath 
church-bells  are  ringing  from  the  city  far  away  in  the 
plain.  Do  you  remember  the  beautiful  lines  of  Uh- 
land?- 

"  Es  ist  der  Tag  des  Herrn : 
Ich  bin  allein  auf  weitern  Flur, 
Noch  eine  Morgcnglockc  nur, 
Und  Stille  nah  und  fern. 

"  Anbetend  knie  ich  hier. 
O  siisses  Graun,  geheimes  Wehn, 
Als  knieeten  Viele  ungesehn 
Und  beteten  mit  mir." 

Here  is  a  noble  and  touching  pictorial  illustration  of 
them — of  Sabbath  repose  and  recueillement — an  almost 
endless  flock  of  sheep  lies  around  the  pious  pastor :  the  sun 
shines  peacefully  over  the  vast  fertile  plain ;  blue  moun- 
tains keep  watch  in  the  distance ;  and  the  sky  above  is  se- 
renely clear.  I  think  this  is  the  highest  flight  of  poetry  the 
painter  has  dared  to  take  yet.  The  numbers  and  variety 
of  attitude  and  expression  in  that  flock  of  sheep  quite 
startle  the  spectator  as  he  examines  them.  The  picture 
is  a  wonder  of  skill. 

How  richly  the  good  pictures  cluster  at  this  end  of  the 
room!  There  is  a  little  ^lulready,  of  which  the  colour 
blazes  out  like  sapphires  and  rubies;  a  pair  of  Leslies- 
one  called  the  "  Heiress  "—one  a  scene  from  Moliere— 
both  delightful:— these  are  flanked  by  the  magnificent 
nymphs  of  Etty,  before  mentioned.  What  school  of  art 
in  Europe,  or  what  age,  can  show  better  painters  than 


544  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

these  in  their  various  Hnes?  The  young  men  do  well, 
but  the  eldest  do  best  still.  No  wonder  the  English 
pictures  are  fetching  their  thousands  of  guineas  at  the 
sales.  They  deserve  these  great  prices  as  well  as  the 
best  works  of  the  Hollanders. 

I  am  sure  that  three  such  pictures  as  Mr.  Webster's 
"  Dame's  School "  ought  to  entitle  the  proprietor  to  pay 
the  income-tax.  There  is  a  little  caricature  in  some  of 
the  children's  faces;  but  the  schoolmistress  is  a  perfect 
figure,  most  admirably  natural,  humorous,  and  senti- 
mental. The  picture  is  beautifully  painted,  full  of  air, 
of  delightful  harmony  and  tone. 

There  are  works  by  Creswick  that  can  hardly  be 
praised  too  much.  One  particularly,  called  "  A  Place  to 
be  Remembered,"  which  no  lover  of  pictures  can  see  and 
forget.  Danby's  great  "  Evening  Scene  "  has  portions 
which  are  not  surpassed  by  Cuyp  or  Claude ;  and  a  noble 
landscape  of  Lee's,  among  several  others — a  height  with 
some  trees  and  a  great  expanse  of  country  beneath. 

From  the  fine  pictures  you  come  to  the  class  which  are 
very  nearly  being  fine  pictures.  In  this  I  would  enumer- 
ate a  landscape  or  two  by  Collins ;  Mr.  Leigh's  "  Poly- 
phemus," of  which  the  landscape  part  is  very  good,  and 
only  the  figure  questionable;  and  let  us  say  Mr.  Elmore's 
"  Origin  of  the  Guelf  and  Ghibelline  Factions,"  which 
contains  excellent  passages,  and  admirable  drawing  and 
dexterity,  but  fails  to  strike  as  a  whole  somehow.  There 
is  not  sufficient  purpose  in  it,  or  the  story  is  not  enough 
to  interest,  or,  though  the  parts  are  excellent,  the  whole 
is  somewhere  deficient. 

There  is  very  little  comedy  in  the  exhibition,  most  of 
the  5^oung  artists  tending  to  the  sentimental  rather  than 
the  ludicrous.     Leslie's  scene  from  Moliere  is  the  best 


PICTURE   GOSSIP  545 

comedy.  Collins's  "Fetching  the  Doctor"  is  also  de- 
hghtful  fun.  The  greatest  farce,  however,  is  Chalon's 
picture  with  an  Itahan  title,  "  B.  Virgine  col,"  &c.  Im- 
pudence never  went  beyond  this.  The  infant's  hair  has 
been  curled  into  ringlets,  the  mother  sits  on  her  chair 
with  painted  cheeks  and  a  Haymarket  leer.  The  picture 
might  serve  for  the  oratory  of  an  opera-girl. 

Among  the  portraits.  Knight's  and  Watson  Gordon's 
are  the  best.  A  "  Mr.  Pigeon  "  by  the  former  hangs  in 
the  place  of  honour  usually  devoted  to  our  gracious 
Prince,  and  is  a  fine  rich  state  picture.  Even  better  are 
there  by  ]\Ir.  Watson  Gordon :  one  representing  a  gen- 
tleman in  black  silk  stockings  whose  name  has  escaped 
the  memory  of  your  humble  servant;  another,  a  fine 
portrait  of  ]Mr.  De  Quincey,  the  opium-eater.  Mr.  Law- 
rence's heads,  solemn  and  solidly  painted,  look  out  at 
you  from  their  frames,  though  they  be  ever  so  high 
placed,  and  push  out  of  sight  the  works  of  more  flimsy 
but  successful  practitioners.  A  portrait  of  great  power 
and  richness  of  colour  is  that  of  Mr.  Lopez  by  Linnell. 
Mr.  Grant  is  a  favourite ;  but  a  very  unsound  painter  to 
my  mind,  painting  like  a  brilliant  and  graceful  amateur 
rather  than  a  serious  artist.  But  there  is  a  quiet  refine- 
ment and  beauty  about  his  female  heads,  which  no  other 
painter  can  perhaps  give,  and  charms  in  spite  of  many 
errors.  Is  it  Count  d'Orsay,  or  is  it  Mr.  Ainsworth, 
that  the  former  has  painted?  Two  peas  are  not  more 
alike  than  these  two  illustrious  characters. 

In  the  miniature-room,  Mr.  Richmond's  drawings  are 
of  so  grand  and  noble  a  character,  that  they  fill  the  eye 
as  much  as  full-length  canvases.  Nothing  can  be  finer 
than  Mrs.  Fry  and  the  grey -haired  lady  in  black  velvet. 
There  is  a  certain  severe,  respectable,  Exeter-Hall  look 


546  CRITICAL  REVIEWS 

about  most  of  this  artist's  pictures,  that  the  observer  may 
compare  with  the  Cathohc  physiognomies  of  Mr.  Her- 
bert: see  his  picture  of  Mr.  Pugin,  for  instance;  it  tells 
of  chants  and  cathedrals,  as  Mr.  Richmond's  work  some- 
how does  of  Clapham  Common  and  the  May  Meetings. 
The  genius  of  ]M  ay  fair  fires  the  bosom  of  Chalon— the 
tea-party,  the  quadrille,  the  hairdresser,  the  tailor,  and 
the  flunkey.  All  Ross's  miniatures  sparkle  with  his 
wonderful  and  minute  skill;  Carrick's  are  excellent; 
Thorburn's  almost  take  the  rank  of  historical  pictures. 
In  his  picture  of  two  sisters,  one  has  almost  the  most 
beautiful  head  in  the  world;  and  his  picture  of  Prince 
Albert,  clothed  in  red  and  leaning  on  a  turquoise  sabre, 
has  ennobled  that  fine  head,  and  given  his  Royal  High- 
ness's  pale  features  an  air  of  sunburnt  and  warlike 
vigour.  Miss  Corbaux,  too,  has  painted  one  of  the  love- 
liest heads  ever  seen.  Perhaps  this  is  the  pleasantest 
room  of  the  whole,  for  you  are  sure  to  meet  your  friends 
here;  kind  faces  smile  at  you  from  the  ivory;  and  fea- 
tures of  fair  creatures,  oh!  how — 

***** 

[Here  the  eccentric  author  breaks  into  a  rhapsody  of 
thirteen  pages  regarding  No.  2576,  Mrs.  Major  Blogg, 
who  was  formerly  Miss  Poddy  of  Cheltenham,  whom  it 
appears  that  IMichael  Angelo  knew  and  admired.  The 
feelings  of  the  Poddy  family  might  be  hurt,  and  the 
jealousy  of  Major  Blogg  aroused,  were  we  to  print 
Titmarsh's  rapturous  description  of  that  lady;  nor,  in- 
deed, can  we  give  him  anj'^  further  space,  seeing  that  this 
is  nearly  the  last  page  of  the  INIagazine.  He  concludes 
by  a  withering  denunciation  of  most  of  the  statues  in 
the  vault  where  they  are  buried;  praising,  however,  the 
children,  Paul  and  Virginia,  the  head  of  Baily's  nymph, 


PICTURE    GOSSIP  54.7 

and  M'Dowall's  bov.  He  remarks  the  honest  character 
of  the  Enghsh  countenance  as  exhibited  in  the  busts, 
and  contrasts  it  with  Louis  PhiHppe's  head  by  Jones,  on 
whom,  both  as  a  sculptor  and  a  singer,  he  bestows  great 
praise.  He  indignantly  remonstrates  M-ith  the  com- 
mittee for  putting  by  far  the  finest  female  bust  in  the 
room,  No.  1434,  by  Powers  of  Florence,  in  a  situation 
where  it  cannot  be  seen ;  and,  quitting  the  gallery  finally, 
says  he  must  go  before  he  leaves  town  and  give  one  more 
look  at  Hunt's  "  Boy  at  Prayers,"  in  the  Water-Colour 
Exhibition,  which  he  pronounces  to  be  the  finest  serious 
work  of  the  year.] 

(Fraser's  Magazine,  June  1845.) 


VARIOUS  ESSAYS,  LETTERS, 
SKETCHES,  ETC. 


VARIOUS  ESSAYS,  LETTERS, 
SKETCHES,  ETC. 

MEMORIALS   OF   GORMANDISING 

IN  A  LETTER  TO  OLIVER  YORKE,  ESQUIRE, 
BY  M.  A.  TITMARSH 

Paris:  May  1841. 

SIR, — The  man  who  makes  the  best  salads  in  London, 
and  whom,  therefore,  we  have  facetiously  called 
Sultan  Saladin, — a  man  who  is  conspicuous  for  his  love 
and  practice  of  all  the  polite  arts— music,  to  wit,  archi- 
tecture, painting,  and  cookery — once  took  the  humble 
personage  who  writes  this  into  his  library,  and  laid  before 
me  two  or  three  volumes  of  manuscript  year-books,  such 
as,  since  he  began  to  travel  and  to  observe,  he  has  been  in 
the  habit  of  keeping. 

Every  night,  in  the  course  of  his  rambles,  his  highness 
the  sultan  (indeed,  his  port  is  sublime,  as,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  are  all  the  wines  in  his  cellar)  sets  down  with  an 
iron  pen,  and  in  the  neatest  handwriting  in  the  world,  the 
events  and  observations  of  the  day;  with  the  same  iron 
pen  he  illuminates  the  leaf  of  his  journal  by  the  most 
faithful  and  delightful  sketches  of  the  scenery  which  he 
has  witnessed  in  the  course  of  the  four-and-twenty 
hours;  and  if  he  has  dined  at  an  inn  or  restaurant,  gast- 
haus,  posada,  albergo,  or  what  not,  invariably  inserts 

551 


552    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

into  his  log-book  the  bill  of  fare.  The  sultan  leads  a 
jolly  life— a  tall  stalwart  man,  who  every  day  about  six 
o'clock  in  London  and  Paris,  at  two  in  Italy,  in  Germany 
and  Belgium  at  an  hour  after  noon,  feels  the  noble  calls 
of  hunger  agitating  his  lordly  bosom  (or  its  neighbour- 
hood, that  is),  and  rephes  to  the  call  by  a  good  dinner. 
Ah !  it  is  wonderful  to  think  how  the  healthy  and  philo- 
sophic mind  can  accommodate  itself  in  all  cases  to  the 
varying  circumstances  of  the  time— how,  in  its  travels 
through  the  world,  the  liberal  and  cosmopolite  stomach 
recognises  the  national  dinner-hour!  Depend  upon  it 
that,  in  all  countries,  nature  has  wisely  ordained  and 
suited  to  their  exigencies  the  dishes  of  a  people.  I 
mean  to  say  that  olla  podrida  is  good  in  Spain  (though  a 
plateful  of  it,  eaten  in  Paris,  once  made  me  so  dreadfully 
ill  that  it  is  a  mercy  I  was  spared  ever  to  eat  anotherdin- 
ner)  ;  I  mean  to  say,  and  have  proved  it,  that  sauerkraut 
is  good  in  Germany ;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  whale's 
blubber  is  a  very  tolerable  dish  in  Kamtschatka,  though 
I  have  never  visited  the  country.  Cannibalism  in  the 
South  Seas,  and  sheepsheadism  in  Scotland,  are  the  only 
practices  that  one  cannot,  perhaps,  reconcile  with  this 
rule — at  least,  whatever  a  man's  private  opinions  may 
be,  the  decencies  of  society  oblige  him  to  eschew  the  ex- 
pression of  them  upon  subjects  which  the  national 
prejudice  has  precluded  from  free  discussion. 

Well,  after  looking  through  three  or  four  of  Saladin's 
volumes,  I  grew  so  charmed  with  them,  that  I  used  to 
come  back  every  day  and  study  them.  I  declare  there 
are  bills  of  fare  in  those  books  over  which  I  have  cried; 
and  the  reading  of  them,  especially  about  an  hour  before 
dinner,  has  made  me  so  ferociously  hungry,  that,  in  the 
first  place,  the  sultan  (a  kind-hearted  generous  man,  as 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    553 

every  man  is  who  loves  his  meals)  could  not  help  inviting 
me  to  take  potluck  with  him ;  and,  secondly,  I  could  eat 
twice  as  much  as  upon  common  occasions,  though  my  ap- 
petite is  always  good. 

Lying  awake,  then,  of  nights,  or  wandering  solitary 
abroad  on  wide  commons,  or  by  the  side  of  silent  rivers, 
or  at  church  when  Dr.  Snufflem  was  preaching  his  fa- 
vourite sermon,  or  stretched  on  the  flat  of  my  back  smok- 
ing a  cigar  at  the  club  when  X  was  talking  of  the  corn- 
laws,  or  Y  was  describing  that  famous  run  they  had  with 
the  Z  hounds— at  all  periods,  I  say,  favourable  to  self- 
examination,  those  bills  of  fare  have  come  into  my  mind, 
and  often  and  often  I  have  thought  them  over.  "  Tit- 
marsh,"  I  have  said  to  myself,  "  if  ever  you  travel  again, 
do  as  the  sultan  has  done,  and  keep  your  dinner-hills. 
They  are  always  pleasant  to  look  over ;  they  always  will 
recall  happy  hours  and  actions,  be  you  ever  so  hard 
pushed  for  a  dinner,  and  fain  to  put  up  with  an  onion 
and  a  crust:  of  the  past  fate  cannot  dej)rive  you.  Yes- 
terday is  the  philosopher's  property ;  and  by  thinking  of 
it  and  using  it  to  advantage,  he  may  gaily  go  through 
to-morrow,  doubtful  and  dismal  though  it  be.  Try  this 
lamb  stuffed  with  pistachio-nuts;  another  handful  of 
this  pillau.  Ho,  you  rascals!  bring  round  the  sherbet 
there,  and  never  spare  the  jars  of  wine— 'tis  true  Persian, 
on  the  honour  of  a  Barmecide!"  Is  not  that  dinner  in 
the  "Arabian  Nights  "  a  right  good  dinner?  Would  you 
have  had  Bedreddin  to  refuse  and  turn  sulky  at  the  windy 
repast,  or  to  sit  down  grinning  in  the  face  of  his  grave 
entertainer,  and  gaily  take  what  came?  Remember  what 
came  of  the  honest  fellow's  philosophy.  He  slapped  the 
grim  old  prince  in  the  face ;  and  the  grim  old  prince,  who 
had  invited  him  but  to  laugh  at  him,  did  presently  order 


554    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

a  real  and  substantial  repast  to  be  set  before  him— great 
pyramids  of  smoking  rice  and  pillau  (a  good  pillau  is 
one  of  the  best  dishes  in  the  world) ,  savoury  kids,  snow- 
cooled  sherbets,  luscious  wine  of  Schiraz;  with  an  ac- 
companiment of  moon-faced  beauties  from  the  harem,  no 
doubt,  dancing,  singing,  and  smiling  in  the  most  ravish- 
ing manner.  Thus  should  we,  my  dear  friends,  laugh  at 
Fate's  beard,  as  we  confront  him — thus  should  we,  if  the 
old  monster  be  insolent,  fall  to  and  box  his  ears.  He  has 
a  spice  of  humour  in  his  composition;  and  be  sure  he 
will  be  tickled  by  such  conduct. 

Some  months  ago,  when  the  expectation  of  war  be- 
tween England  and  France  grew  to  be  so  strong,  and 
there  was  such  a  talk  of  mobilising  national  guards,  and 
arming  three  or  four  hundred  thousand  more  French 
soldiers — when  such  ferocious  yells  of  hatred  against 
perfidious  Albion  were  uttered  by  the  liberal  French 
press,  that  I  did  really  believe  the  rupture  between  the 
two  countries  was  about  immediately  to  take  place ;  being 
seriously  alarmed,  I  set  off  for  Paris  at  once.  My  good 
sir,  what  could  we  do  without  our  Paris?  I  came  here 
first  in  1815  (when  the  Duke  and  I  were  a  good  deal  re- 
marked by  the  inhabitants)  ;  I  proposed  but  to  stay  a 
week;  stopped  three  months,  and  have  returned  every 
year  since.  There  is  something  fatal  in  the  place— a 
charm  about  it— a  wicked  one  very  likely— but  it  acts  on 
us  all;  and  perpetually  the  old  Paris  man  comes  hieiilg 
back  to  his  quarters  again,  and  is  to  be  found,  as  usual, 
sunning  himself  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Painters, 
princes,  goui'mands,  officers  on  half -pay— serious  old 
ladies  even  acknowledge  the  attraction  of  the  place— are 
more  at  ease  here  than  in  any  other  place  in  Europe ;  and 
back  they  come,  and  are  to  be  found  sooner  or  later  occu- 
pying their  old  haunts. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    555 

My  darling  city  improves,  too,  with  each  visit,  and  lias 
some  new  palace,  or  church,  or  statue,  or  other  gimcrack, 
to  greet  your  eyes  withal.  A  few  j^ears  since,  and  lo !  on 
the  column  of  the  Place  Vendome,  instead  of  the  shabby 
tri-coloured  rag,  shone  the  bronze  statue  of  Napoleon. 
Then  came  the  famous  triumphal  arch;  a  noble  build- 
ing indeed! — how  stately  and  white,  and  beautiful  and 
strong,  it  seems  to  dominate  over  the  whole  city!  Next 
was  the  obelisk ;  a  huge  bustle  and  festival  being  made  to 
welcome  it  to  the  city.  Then  came  the  fair  asphaltum 
terraces  round  about  the  obelisk;  then  the  fountains  to 
decorate  the  terraces.  I  have  scarcely  been  twelve 
months  absent,  and  behold  they  have  gilded  all  the 
Naiads  and  Tritons ;  they  have  clapped  a  huge  fountain 
in  the  veiy  midst  of  the  Champs  Elysees— a  great,  glit- 
tering, frothing  fountain,  that  to  the  poetic  eye  looks 
like  an  enormous  shaving-brush;  and  all  down  the  ave- 
nue they  have  placed  hundreds  of  gilded  flaring  gas- 
lamps,  that  make  this  gayest  walk  in  the  world  look  gaj^er 
still  than  ever.  But  a  truce  to  such  descriptions,  which 
might  carry  one  far,  very  far,  from  the  object  proposed 
in  this  paper. 

I  simply  wish  to  introduce  to  public  notice  a  brief 
dinner- journal.  It  has  been  written  with  the  utmost 
honesty  and  simplicity  of  purpose;  and  exhibits  a  pic- 
ture or  table  of  the  development  of  the  human  mind 
under  a  series  of  gastronomic  experiments,  diversified  in 
their  nature,  and  diversified,  consequently,  in  their  ef- 
fects. A  man  in  London  has  not,  for  the  most  part,  the 
opportunity  to  make  these  experiments.  You  are  a  fam- 
ily man,  let  us  presume,  and  you  live  in  that  metropolis 
for  half  a  century.  You  have  on  Sunday,  say,  a  leg  of 
mutton  and  potatoes  for  dinner.  On  INIonday  you  have 
cold  mutton  and  potatoes.    On  Tuesday,  hashed  mutton 


55G    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

and  potatoes;  the  hashed  mutton  being  flavoured  with 
httle  damp  triangular  pieces  of  toast,  which  always  sur- 
round that  charming  dish.  Well,  on  Wednesday,  the 
mutton  ended,  you  have  beef:  the  beef  undergoes  the 
same  alternations  of  cookery,  and  disappears.  Your 
life  presents  a  succession  of  joints,  varied  every  now  and 
then  by  a  bit  of  fish  and  some  poultry.  You  drink  three 
glasses  of  a  brandyfied  liquor  called  sherry  at  dinner; 
your  excellent  lady  imbibes  one.  When  she  has  had  her 
glass  of  port  after  dinner,  she  goes  upstairs  with  the 
children,  and  you  fall  asleep  in  your  arm-chair.  Some 
of  the  most  pure  and  precious  enjoyments  of  life  are 
unknown  to  you.  You  eat  and  drink,  but  you  do  not 
know  the  art  of  eating  and  drinking;  nay,  most  proba- 
bly you  despise  those  who  do.  "  Give  me  a  slice  of  meat," 
say  you,  very  likely,  "  and  a  fig  for  your  gourmands." 
You  fancy  it  is  very  virtuous  and  manly  all  this.  Non- 
sense, my  good  sir;  you  are  indiflPerent  because  you  are 
ignorant,  because  your  life  is  passed  in  a  narrow  circle 
of  ideas,  and  because  you  are  bigotedly  blind  and  pom- 
pously callous  to  the  beauties  and  excellencies  beyond  you. 

Sir,  RESPECT  YOUR  DINNER;  idolisc  it,  enjoy  it  prop- 
erly. You  will  be  by  many  hours  in  the  week,  many 
weeks  in  the  year,  and  many  years  in  your  life  the  hap- 
pier if  you  do. 

Don't  tell  us  that  it  is  not  worthy  of  a  man.  All  a 
man's  senses  are  worthy  of  employment,  and  should  be 
cultivated  as  a  duty.  The  senses  are  the  arts.  What 
glorious  feasts  does  Nature  prepare  for  your  eye  in  ani- 
mal form,  in  landscape,  and  painting!  Are  you  to  put 
out  your  eyes  and  not  see  ?  What  royal  dishes  of  melody 
does  her  bounty  provide  for  you  in  the  shape  of  poetry, 
music,  whether  windy  or  wiry,  notes  of  the  human  voice. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    557 


or  ravishing  song  of  birds!  Are  you  to  stuff  your  ears 
with  cotton,  and  vow  that  the  sense  of  hearing  is  un- 
manly?—you  obstinate  dolt  you!  No,  surely;  nor  must 
you  be  so  absurd  as  to  fancy  that  the  art  of  eating  is  in  any 
way  less  worthy  than  the  other  two.  You  like  your  din- 
ner, man ;  never  be  ashamed  to  say  so.  If  you  don't  like 
your  victuals,  pass  on  to  the  next  article ;  but  remember 
that  every  man  who  has  been  worth  a  fig  in  this  world,  as 
poet,  painter,  or  musician,  has  had  a  good  appetite  and  a 
good  taste.  Ah,  what  a  poet  Byron  would  have  been  had 
he  taken  his  meals  properly,  and  allowed  himself  to  grow 
fat — if  nature  intended  him  to  grow  fat — and  not  have 
physicked  his  intellect  with  wretched  opium  pills  and 
acrid  vinegar,  that  sent  his  i)rinciples  to  sleep,  and  turned 
his  feelings  sour !  If  that  man  had  respected  his  dinner, 
he  never  would  have  written  "  Don  Juan." 

Allons  done!  enough  sermonising ;  let  us  sit  down  and 
fall  to  at  once. 

I  dined  soon  after  my  arrival  at  a  very  pleasant  Paris 
club,  where  daily  is  provided  a  dinner  for  ten  persons, 
that  is  universally  reported  to  be  excellent.  Five  men  in 
England  would  have  consumed  the  same  amount  of  vic- 
tuals, as  you  will  see  by  the  bills  of  fare:— 


A   beef  with   car- 
rots and  vegetables, 
very  good ; 


removed  by 


A  brace  of  roast 
pheasants. 


Soupe,  puree  aux 
croutons. 


Poulets    a    la    Ma- 
rengo ; 


removed  by 


Cardonsa  lamoelle. 


Dessert  of  cheese,  pears,  and  Fontaincbleau  grapes, 
Bordeaux  (red)  and  excellent  Chablis  at  discretion. 


558    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

This  dinner  was  very  nicely  served.  A  venerable 
maitre  d' hotel  in  black  cutting  up  neatly  the  dishes  on  a 
trencher  at  the  side-table,  and  several  waiters  attending 
in  green  coats,  red  plush  tights,  and  their  hair  curled. 
There  was  a  great  quantity  of  light  in  the  room;  some 
handsome  pieces  of  plated  ware;  the  pheasants  came 
in  with  their  tails  to  their  backs;  and  the  smart  wait- 
ers, with  their  hair  dressed  and  parted  down  the  middle, 
gave  a  pleasant,  lively,  stylish  appearance  to  the  whole 
aifair. 

Now,  I  certainly  dined  (by  the  way,  I  must  not  forget 
to  mention  that  we  had  with  the  beef  some  boiled  kidney 
potatoes,  very  neatly  dished  up  in  a  napkin)  — I  cer- 
tainly dined,  I  say;  and  half  an  hour  afterwards  felt, 
perhaps,  more  at  my  ease  than  I  should  have  done  had  I 
consulted  my  own  inclinations,  and  devoured  twice  the 
quantity  that  on  this  occasion  came  to  my  share.  But  I 
would  rather,  as  a  man  not  caring  for  appearances,  dine, 
as  a  general  rule,  off  a  beefsteak  for  two  at  the  Cafe 
Foy,  than  sit  down  to  take  a  tenth  part  of  such  a  meal 
every  day.  There  was  only  one  man  at  the  table  besides 
your  humble  servant  who  did  not  put  water  into  his  wine ; 
and  he— I  mean  the  other — was  observed  by  his  friends, 
who  exclaimed,  "  Comment!  vous  buvez  sec,"  as  if  to  do 
so  was  a  wonder.  The  consequence  was,  that  half-a- 
dozen  bottles  of  wine  served  for  the  whole  ten  of  us ;  and 
the  guests,  having  despatched  their  dinner  in  an  hour, 
skipped  lightly  away  from  it,  did  not  stay  to  ruminate, 
and  to  feel  uneasy,  and  to  fiddle  about  the  last  and  pe- 
nultimate waistcoat  button,  as  we  do  after  a  house-dinner 
at  an  Enghsh  club.  What  was  it  that  made  the  charm 
of  this  dinner?— for  pleasant  it  was.  It  was  the  neat 
and  comfortable  manner  in  which  it  was  served;  the 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    559 

pheasant-tails  had  a  considerable  effect;  that  snowy 
napkin  coquettishly  arranged  round  the  kidneys  gave 
them  a  distingue  air;  the  light  and  glittering  service 
gave  an  appearance  of  plenty  and  hospitality  that  sent 
everybody  away  contented. 

I  put  down  this  dinner  just  to  show  English  and 
Scotch  housekeepers  what  may  be  done,  and  for  what 
price.    Say, 

s.  d. 

Soup  and  fresh  bread,  )       .  ,  ^ 

T,     i        1  ^  >•  prime  cost      .     2  6 

Heei  and  carrots  j 

Fowls  and  sauce 3  6 

Pheasants  (hens) 5  0 

Grapes,  pears,  cheese,  vegetables     ..30 


14   0 


For  fifteenpence  par  tete  a  company  of  ten  persons 
may  have  a  dinner  set  before  them, — nay,  and  be  made 
to  fancy  that  they  dine  well,  provided  the  service  is  hand- 
somely arranged,  that  you  have  a  good  stock  of  side- 
dishes,  &c.,  in  your  plate-chest,  and  don't  spare  the  sper- 
maceti. 

As  for  the  wine,  that  depends  on  yourself.  Always 
be  crying  out  to  your  friends,  "  Mr.  So-and-so,  I  don't 
drink  myself,  but  pray  pass  the  bottle.  Tomkins,  my 
boy,  help  your  neighbour,  and  never  mind  me.  What! 
Hopkins,  are  there  two  of  us  on  the  doctor's  list  ?  Pass 
the  wine:  Smith  I'm  sure  won't  refuse  it;"  and  so  on. 
A  very  good  plan  is  to  have  the  butler  (or  the  fellow  in 
the  white  waistcoat  who  "  behaves  as  sich  ")  pour  out  the 
wine  when  wanted  (in  half -glasses,  of  course),  and  to 
make  a  deuced  great  noise  and  shouting,  "  John,  John, 
why  the  devil,  sir.  don't  you  help  Mr.  Simkins  to  another 


560    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

glass  of  wine? "  If  you  point  out  Simkins  once  or  twice 
in  this  way,  depend  upon  it,  he  won't  drink  a  great  quan- 
tity of  your  liquor.  You  may  thus  keep  your  friends 
from  being  dangerous,  by  a  thousand  innocent  manoeu- 
vres ;  and,  as  I  have  said  before,  you  may  very  probably 
make  them  believe  that  they  have  had  a  famous  din- 
ner. There  was  only  one  man  in  our  company  of  ten 
the  other  day  w^ho  ever  thought  he  had  not  dined;  and 
what  was  he?  a  foreigner, — a  man  of  a  discontented 
inquiring  spirit,  always  carping  at  things,  and  never 
satisfied. 

Well,  next  day  I  dined  au  cinquieme  with  a  family 
(of  Irish  extraction,  by  the  waj^) ,  and  what  do  you  think 
was  our  dinner  for  six  persons  ?     Why,  simply, 

Nine  dozen  Ostcnd  oysters ; 
Soup  a  la  mulligatawny  ; 
Boiled  turkey,  with  celery  sauce ; 
Saddle  of  mutton  roti. 

Removes :  Plompouding ;  croute  de  macaroni. 
Vin:  Beaune  ordinaire,  volnay,  bordeaux,  champagne, 
eau  chaudc,  cognac. 

I  forget  the  dessert.  Alas !  in  moments  of  prosperity 
and  plenty,  one  is  often  forgetful:  I  remember  the  des- 
sert at  the  Cercle  well  enough. 

A  person  whom  they  call  in  this  country  an  illustration 
litteraire — the  editor  of  a  newspaper,  in  fact — with  a 
very  pretty  wife,  were  of  the  party,  and  looked  at  the 
dinner  with  a  great  deal  of  good-humoured  superiority. 
I  declare,  upon  my  honour,  that  I  helped  both  the  illus- 
tration and  his  lady  twice  to  saddle  of  mutton;  and  as 
for  the  turkey  and  celery  sauce,  you  should  have  seen 
how  om*  host  dispensed  it  to  them !     They  ate  the  oysters. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    561 

they  ate  the  soup  ("  Diable!  mais  il  est  poivre! "  said  the 
illustration,  with  tears  in  his  eyes ) ,  they  ate  the  turkey, 
they  ate  the  mutton,  they  ate  the  pudding ;  and  what  did 
our  hostess  say?  Why,  casting  down  her  eyes  gently, 
and  with  the  modestest  air  in  the  world,  she  said, — 
"  There  is  such  a  beautiful  piece  of  cold  beef  in  the 
larder;  do  somebody  ask  for  a  little  slice  of  it." 

Heaven  bless  her  for  that  speech!  I  loved  and  re- 
spected her  for  it;  it  brought  the  tears  to  mj''  eyes.  A 
man  who  could  sneer  at  such  a  sentiment  could  have 
neither  heart  nor  good  breeding.  Don't  you  see  that 
it  shows 

Simplicity, 
Modesty, 
Hospitality  ? 

Put  these  against 

Waiters  with  their  hair  curled, 
Pheasants  roasted  with  their  tails  on, 
A  dozen  spermaceti  candles. 

Add  them  up,  I  say,  oh  candid  reader,  and  answer  in  the 
sum  of  human  happiness,  which  of  the  two  accounts 
makes  the  better  figure? 

I  declare,  I  know  few  things  more  affecting  than  that 
little  question  about  the  cold  ])eef;  and  considering 
calmly  our  national  characteristics,  balancing  in  the  scale 
of  quiet  thought  our  defects  and  our  merits,  am  daily 
more  inclined  to  believe  that  there  is  something  in  the 
race  of  Britons  which  renders  them  usually  superior  to 
the  French  family.  This  is  but  one  of  the  traits  of  Eng- 
lish character  that  has  been  occasioned  by  the  use  of 
roast  beef. 


562    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

It  is  an  immense  question,  that  of  diet.  Look  at  the 
two  bills  of  fare  just  set  down;  the  relative  consump- 
tion of  ten  animals  and  six.  What  a  profound  physical 
and  moral  difference  may  we  trace  here !  How  distinct, 
from  the  cradle  upwards,  must  have  been  the  thoughts, 
feelings,  education  of  the  parties  who  ordered  those  two 
dinners!  It  is  a  fact  which  does  not  admit  of  a  question, 
that  the  French  are  beginning,  since  so  many  English 
have  come  among  them,  to  use  beef  much  more  pro- 
fusely. Everybody  at  the  restaurateur's  orders  beef- 
steak and  pommes.  Will  the  national  character  slowly 
undergo  a  change  under  the  influence  of  this  dish?  Will 
the  French  be  more  simple?  broader  in  the  shoulders? 
less  inclined  to  brag  about  military  glory  and  such  hum- 
bug? All  this  in  the  dark  vista  of  futurity  the  specta- 
tor may  fancy  is  visible  to  him,  and  the  philanthropist 
cannot  but  applaud  the  change.  This  brings  me  natur- 
ally to  the  consideration  of  the  manner  of  dressing  beef- 
steaks in  this  country,  and  of  the  merit  of  that  manner. 

I  dined  on  a  Saturday  at  the  Cafe  Foy,  on  the  Boule- 
vard, in  a  private  room,  with  a  friend.     We  had 

Potage  julienne,  with  a  little  puree  in  it ; 

Two  entrecotes  aux  epinards ; 

One  perdreau  trufFe ; 

One  fromage  roquefort ; 

A  bottle  of  nuits  with  the  beef; 

A  bottle  of  sauterne  with  the  partridge. 

And  perhaps  a  glass  of  punch,  with  a  cigar,  afterwards: 
but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  insertion  of  the 
puree  into  the  julienne  was  not  of  my  recommending; 
and  if  this  junction  is  effected  at  all,  the  operation  should 
be  performed  with  the  greatest  care.     If  you  put  too 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    563 

much  puree,  both  soups  are  infalhbly  spoiled.  A  much 
better  plan  it  is  to  have  your  julienne  by  itself,  though  I 
will  not  enlarge  on  this  point,  as  the  excellent  friend  with 
whom  I  dined  may  chance  to  see  this  notice,  and  may  be 
hurt  at  the  renewal  in  print  of  a  dispute  which  caused 
a  good  deal  of  pain  to  both  of  us.  By  the  way,  we  had 
half-a-dozen  sardines  while  the  dinner  was  getting  ready, 
eating  them  with  delicious  bread  and  butter,  for  which 
this  place  is  famous.     Then  followed  the  soup.     Why 

the  deuce  would  he  have  the  pu but  never  mind. 

After  the  soup,  we  had  what  I  do  not  hesitate  to  call  the 
very  best  beefsteak  I  ever  ate  in  my  life.  By  the  shade 
of  Heliogabalus !  as  I  write  about  it  now,  a  week  after 
I  have  eaten  it,  the  old,  rich,  sweet,  piquant,  juicy  taste 
comes  smacking  on  my  lips  again ;  and  I  feel  something 
of  that  exquisite  sensation  I  then  had.  I  am  ashamed 
of  the  delight  which  the  eating  of  that  piece  of  meat 

caused  me.     G and  I  had  quarrelled  about  the  soup 

(I  said  so,  and  don't  wish  to  return  to  the  subject)  ;  but 
when  we  began  on  the  steak,  we  looked  at  each  other, 
and  loved  each  other.  We  did  not  speak,— our  hearts 
were  too  full  for  that ;  but  we  took  a  bit,  and  laid  down 
our  forks,  and  looked  at  one  another,  and  understood 
each  other.  There  w^ere  no  two  individuals  on  this  wide 
earth, — no  two  lovers  billing  in  the  shade, — no  mother 
clasping  baby  to  her  heart,  more  supremely  happy  than 
we.  Every  now  and  then  we  had  a  glass  of  honest,  firm, 
generous  Burgundy,  that  nobly  supported  the  meat.  As 
you  may  fancy,  we  did  not  leave  a  single  morsel  of  the 
steak;  but  when  it  was  done,  we  put  bits  of  bread  into 
the  silver  dish,  and  wistfully  sopped  up  the  gravy.  I 
suppose  I  shall  never  in  this  world  taste  anything  so  good 
again.     But  what  then?     What  if  I  did  hke  it  exces- 


564>    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

sively?  Was  my  liking  unjust  or  unmanly?  Is  my  re- 
gret now  puling  or  unworthy?  No.  "Laudo  manen- 
tem!"  as  Titmouse  says.  When  it  is  eaten,  I  resign 
myself,  and  can  eat  a  two-franc  dinner  at  Richard's 
without  ill-humour  and  without  a  pang. 

Any  dispute  about  the  relative  excellence  of  the  beef- 
steak cut  from  the  filet,  as  is  usual  in  France,  and  of  the 
entrecote,  must  henceforth  be  idle  and  absurd.  When- 
ever, my  dear  young  friend,  you  go  to  Paris,  call  at  once 
for  the  entrecote;  the  filet  in  comparison  to  it  is  a  poor 
fade  lady's  meat.  What  folly,  by  the  way,  is  that  in 
England  which  induces  us  to  attach  an  estimation  to  the 
part  of  the  sirloin  that  is  called  the  Sunday  side, — poor, 
tender,  stringy  stuff,  not  comparable  to  the  manly  meat 
on  the  other  side,  handsomely  garnished  with  crisp  fat, 
and  with  a  layer  of  horn!  Give  the  Sunday  side  to 
misses  and  ladies'-maids,  for  men  be  the  Monday's  side, 
or,  better  still,  a  thousand  times  more  succulent  and  full 
of  flavour— the  ribs  of  beef.  This  is  the  meat  I  would 
eat  were  I  going  to  do  battle  with  any  mortal  foe. 
Fancy  a  hundred  thousand  Englishmen,  after  a  meal  of 
stalwart  beef  ribs,  encountering  a  hundred  thousand 
Frenchmen  who  had  partaken  of  a  trifling  collation  of 
soup,  turnips,  carrots,  onions,  and  Gruyere  cheese. 
Would  it  be  manly  to  engage  at  such  odds?     I  say,  no. 

Passing  by  Very's  one  day,  I  saw  a  cadaverous  cook 
with  a  spatula,  thumping  a  poor  beefsteak  with  all  his 
might.  This  is  not  only  a  horrible  cruelty,  but  an  error. 
They  not  only  beat  the  beef,  moreover,  but  they  soak 
it  in  oil.  Absurd,  disgusting  barbarity!  Beef  so  beaten 
loses  its  natural  spirit ;  it  is  too  noble  for  corporal  pun- 
ishment. You  may  by  these  tortures  and  artifices  make 
it  soft  and  greasy,  but  tender  and  juicy  never.  -     . 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    565 

The  landlord  of  the  Cafe  Foy  (I  have  received  no  sort 
of  consideration  from  him)  knows  this  truth  full  well, 
and  follows  the  simple  honest  plan;  first,  to  have  good 
meat,  and  next  to  hang  it  a  long  time.  I  have  instructed 
him  how  to  do  the  steaks  to  a  turn,  not  raw,  horribly  livid 
and  blue  in  the  midst,  as  I  have  seen  great  flaps  of  meat 
(what  a  shame  to  think  of  our  fine  meat  being  so 
treated!),  but  cooked  all  the  way  through.  Go  to  the 
Cafe  Foy  then,  ask  for  a  beefsteak  a  la  Titmarsh, 
and  you  will  see  what  a  dish  will  be  set  before  you.  I 
have  dwelt  upon  this  point  at  too  much  length,  perhaps, 
for  some  of  my  readers;  but  it  can't  be  helped.  The 
truth  is,  beef  is  my  weakness;  and  I  do  declare  that  I 
derive  more  positive  enjoyment  from  the  simple  viand 
than  from  any  concoction  whatever  in  the  whole  cook's 
cyclopaedia. 

Always  drink  red  wine  with  beefsteaks ;  port,  if  possi- 
ble; if  not.  Burgundy,  of  not  too  high  a  flavour, — good 
Beaune,  say.  This  fact,  which  is  very  likely  not  known 
to  many  persons  who,  forsooth,  are  too  magnificent  to 
care  about  their  meat  and  drink, — this  simple  fact  I  take 
to  be  worth  the  whole  price  I  shall  get  for  this  article. 

But  to  return  to  dinner.      We  were  left,  I  think, 

G and  I,  sopping  up  the  gravy  with  bits  of  bread, 

and  declaring  that  no  power  on  earth  could  induce  us  to 
eat  a  morsel  more  that  day.  At  one  time,  we  thought 
of  countermanding  the  perdreau  aux  trufFes,  that  to  my 
certain  knowledge  had  been  betrufl'ed  five  days  before. 

Poor  blind  mortals  that  we  were;  ungrateful  to  our 
appetites,  needlessly  mistrustful  and  cowardly.  A  man 
may  do  what  he  dares ;  nor  does  he  know,  until  he  tries, 
what  the  honest  appetite  will  bear.  We  w^re  kept  wait- 
ing between  the  steak  and  the  partridge  some  ten  min- 


5GG    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

iites  or  so.  For  the  first  two  or  three  minutes  we  lay 
back  in  our  chairs  quite  exhausted  indeed.  Then  we 
began  to  fiddle  with  a  dish  of  toothpicks,  for  want  of 
anything  more  savoury ;  then  we  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow ;  then  G got  in  a  rage,  rang  the  bell  violently, 

and  asked,  "  Pourquoi  diable  nous  fait-on  attendre  si 
longtemps? "  The  waiter  grinned.  He  is  a  nice  good- 
humoured  fellow,  Auguste;  and  I  heartily  trust  that 
some  reader  of  this  may  give  him  a  five-franc  piece  for 
my  sake.     Auguste  grinned  and  disappeared. 

Presently,  we  were  aware  of  an  odour  gradually  com- 
ing towards  us,  something  musky,  fiery,  savoury,  mys- 
terious,— a  hot  drowsy  smell,  that  lulls  the  senses,  and 
yet  inflames  them, — the  truffes  were  coming!  Yonder 
they  lie,  caverned  under  the  full  bosom  of  the  red-legged 
bird.     My  hand  trembled  as,  after  a  little  pause,  I  cut 

the  animal  in  two.     G said  I  did  not  give  him  his 

share  of  the  truifes;  I  don't  believe  I  did.  I  spilled 
some  salt  into  my  plate,  and  a  little  cayenne  pepper — 
very  little:  we  began,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  the 
following  conversation:  — 

Gustavus.     Chop,  chop,  chop. 

Michael  Angela.     Globlobloblob. 

G.     Gobble. 

M.  A.     Obble. 

G.     Here's  a  big  one. 

M.  A.  Hobgob.  What  wine  shall  we  have?  I 
should  like  some  champagne. 

G.     It's  bad  here.     Have  some  Sauterne. 

M.  A .     Very  well.     Hobgobglobglob,  &c. 

Auguste  (opening  the  Sauterne).  Cloo-oo-oo-oop ! 
The  cork  is  out ;  he  pours  it  into  the  glass,  glock,  glock, 
glock. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    567 

Nothing  more  took  place  in  the  way  of  talk.  The 
poor  little  partridge  was  soon  a  heap  of  bones — a  very 
little  heap.  A  trufflesqiie  odour  was  left  in  the  room, 
but  only  an  odour.  Presently,  the  cheese  was  brought: 
the  amber  Sauterne  flask  has  turned  of  a  sickly  green 
hue;  nothing,  save  half  a  glass  of  sediment  at  the  bot- 
tom, remained  to  tell  of  the  light  and  social  spirit  that 
had  but  one  half-hour  before  inhabited  the  flask.  Dark- 
ness fell  upon  our  little  chamber;  the  men  in  the  street 
began  crying,  "  Messager!  Journal  du  Soir!"  The 
bright  moon  rose  glittering  over  the  tiles  of  the  Rue 
Louis  le  Grand,  opposite,  illuminating  two  glasses  of 
punch  that  two  gentlemen  in  a  small  room  of  the  Cafe 
Foy  did  ever  and  anon  raise  to  their  lips.  Both  were 
silent;  both  happy;  both  were  smoking  cigars, — for 
both  knew  that  the  soothing  plant  of  Cuba  is  sweeter  to 
the  philosopher  after  dinner  than  the  prattle  of  all  the 
women  in  the  world.  Women — pshaw!  The  man  who, 
after  dinner — after  a  good  dinner — can  think  about 
driving  home,  and  shaving  himself  by  candlelight,  and 
induing  a  damp  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  tight  glazed  pumps 
to  show  his  cobweb  stockings  and  set  his  feet  in  a  flame; 
and,  having  undergone  all  this,  can  get  into  a  cold  cab, 
and  drive  off*  to  No.  222  Harley  Street,  where  INIrs.  Mor- 
timer Smith  is  at  home ;  where  vou  take  off  your  cloak  in 
a  damp  dark  back  parlour,  called  ]\Ir.  Smith's  study,  and 
containing,  when  you  arrive,  twenty-four  ladies'  cloaks 
and  tippets,  fourteen  hats,  two  pairs  of  clogs  (belonging 
to  two  gentlemen  of  the  Middle  Temple,  who  walk  for 
economy,  and  think  dancing  at  Mrs.  INIortimer  Smith's 
the  height  of  enjoyment)  ; — the  man  who  can  do  all  this, 
and  walk,  gracefully  smiling,  into  IMrs.  Smith's  draw- 
ing-rooms, where  the  brown  holland  bags  have  been  re- 


568    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

moved  from  the  chandeliers;  a  man  from  Kirkman's  is 
thumping  on  the  piano,  and  Mrs.  Smith  is  standing  sim- 
pering in  the  middle  of  the  room,  dressed  in  red,  with  a 
l3ird  of  paradise  in  her  turban,  a  tremulous  fan  in  one 
hand,  and  the  other  clutching  hold  of  her  little  fat  gold 
watch  and  seals;— the  man  who,  after  making  his  bow  to 
Mrs.  Smith,  can  advance  to  Miss  Jones,  in  blue  crape, 
and  lead  her  to  a  place  among  six  other  pairs  of  solemn- 
looking  persons,  and  whisper  fadcdses  to  her  (at  which 
she  cries,  "  Oh,  fie,  you  naughty  man!  how  can  you?"), 
and  look  at  Miss  Smith's  red  shoulders  struggling  out 
of  her  gown,  and  her  mottled  elbows  that  a  pair  of 
crumpled  kid  gloves  leave  in  a  state  of  delicious  nature ; 
and,  after  having  gone  through  certain  mysterious  quad- 
rille figures  with  her,  lead  her  back  to  her  mamma,  who 
has  just  seized  a  third  glass  of  muddy  negus  from  the 
black  footman;— the  man  who  can  do  all  this  may  do  it, 
and  go  hang,  for  me !  And  many  such  men  there  be,  my 
Gustavus,  in  yonder  dusky  London  city.  Be  it  ours,  my 
dear  friend,  when  the  day's  labour  and  repast  are  done, 
to  lie  and  ruminate  calmly;  to  watch  the  bland  cigar 
smoke  as  it  rises  gently  ceiling-wards ;  to  be  idle  in  body 
as  well  as  mind ;  not  to  kick  our  heels  madly  in  quadrilles, 
and  pufF  and  pant  in  senseless  gallopades:  let  us  appre- 
ciate the  joys  of  idleness;  let  us  give  a  loose  to  silence; 
and  having  enjoyed  this,  the  best  dessert  after  a  goodly 
dinner,  at  close  of  eve,  saunter  slowly  home. 

***** 
As  the  dinner  above  described  drew  no  less  than  three 
five-franc  pieces  out  of  my  purse,  I  determined  to  econo- 
mise for  the  next  few  days,  and  either  to  be  invited  out 
to  dinner,  or  else  to  partake  of  some  repast  at  a  small 
charge,  such  as  one  may  have  here.     I  had  on  the  day 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    569 

succeeding  the  truffled  partridge  a  dinner  for  a  shilling, 
viz.: — 

Bifsteck  aux  pommes  (heu  quantum  mutatus  ab  illo!) 

Galantine  de  volaille, 

Fromage  de  Gruyere, 

Demi-bouteille  du  vin  tres-vieux  de  Macon  ou  Chablis, 

Pain  a  discretion. 

This  dinner,  mj'^  young  friend,  was  taken  about  half- 
past  two  o'clock  in  the  day,  and  was,  in  fact,  a  breakfast, 
— a  breakfast  taken  at  a  two-franc-house,  in  the  Rue 
Haute  Vivienne;  it  was  certainly  a  sufficient  dinner:  I 
certainly  was  not  hungry  for  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 
Nay,  the  wine  was  decently  good,  as  almost  all  wine  is 
in  the  morning,  if  one  had  the  courage  or  the  power  to 
drink  it.  You  see  many  honest  English  families  march- 
ing into  these  two-franc  eating-houses,  at  five  o'clock, 
and  fancy  they  dine  in  great  luxury.  Returning  to 
England,  however,  they  inform  their  friends  that  the 
meat  in  France  is  not  good ;  that  the  fowls  are  very  small, 
and  black;  the  kidneys  very  tough;  the  partridges  and 
fruit  have  no  taste  in  them,  and  the  soup  is  execrably 
thin.  A  dinner  at  Williams's,  in  the  Old  Bailey,  is  bet- 
ter than  the  best  of  these;  and  therefore  had  the  English 
Cockney  better  remain  at  Williams's  than  judge  the 
great  nation  so  falsely. 

The  worst  of  these  two- franc  establishments  is  a  hor- 
rid air  of  shabby  elegance  which  distinguishes  them.  At 
some  of  them  they  will  go  the  length  of  changing  your 
knife  and  fork  with  every  dish;  they  have  grand  chim- 
ney-glasses, and  a  fine  lady  at  the  counter,  and  fine  ara- 
besque paintings  on  the  walls;  they  give  you  your  soup 
in  a  battered  dish  of  plated  ware,  which  has  served  its 
best  time,  most  likely,  in  a  first-rate  establishment,  and 


570    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

comes  here  to  etaler  its  second-hand  splendour  amongst 
amateurs  of  a  lower  grade.  I  fancy  the  very  meat  that 
is  served  to  you  has  undergone  the  same  degradation,  and 
that  some  of  the  mouldy  cutlets  that  are  offered  to  the 
tv/o-franc  epicures  lay  once  plump  and  juicy  in  Very's 
larder.  Much  better  is  the  sanded  floor  and  the  iron 
fork!  Homely  neatness  is  the  charm  of  poverty:  ele- 
gance should  belong  to  wealth  alone.  There  is  a  very 
decent  place  where  you  dine  for  thirty-two  sous  in  the 
Passage  Choiseul.  You  get  your  soup  in  china  bowls; 
they  don't  change  your  knife  and  fork,  but  they  give  you 
very  fit  portions  of  meat  and  potatoes,  and  mayhap  a 
herring  with  mustard  sauce,  a  dish  of  apple  fritters,  a 
dessert  of  stewed  prunes,  and  a  pint  of  drinkable  wine, 
as  I  have  proved  only  yesterday. 

After  two  such  banyan  days,  I  allowed  myself  a  little 
feasting ;  and  as  nobody  persisted  in  asking  me  to  dinner, 
I  went  off  to  the  "  Trois  Freres  "  by  myself,  and  dined 
in  that  excellent  comj)any. 

I  would  recommend  a  man  who  is  going  to  dine  by 
himself  here,  to  reflect  well  before  he  orders  soup  for 
dinner. 

My  notion  is,  that  you  eat  as  much  after  soup  as  with- 
out it,  but  you  dont  eat  with  the  same  appetite. 

Especially  if  you  are  a  healthy  man,  as  I  am — deuced 
Imngry  at  five  o'clock.  My  appetite  runs  away  with  me ; 
and  if  I  order  soup  (which  is  always  enough  for  two), 
I  invariably  swallow  the  whole  of  it ;  and  the  greater  por- 
tion of  my  petit  pain,  too,  before  my  second  dish  arrives. 

The  best  part  of  a  pint  of  julienne,  or  puree  a  la 
Conde,  is  very  well  for  a  man  who  has  only  one  dish  be- 
sides to  devour;  but  not  for  you  and  me,  who  like  our 
fish  and  our  rati  of  game  or  meat  as  well. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    571 

Oysters  you  may  eat.  They  do,  for  a  fact,  prepare 
one  to  go  through  the  rest  of  a  dinner  properly.  Lemon 
and  caj^enne  pepper  is  the  word,  depend  on  it,  and  a 
glass  of  white  wine  braces  you  up  for  what  is  to  follow. 

French  restaurateur  dinners  are  intended,  however, 
for  two  people,  at  least ;  still  better  for  three ;  and  require 
a  good  deal  of  thought  before  you  can  arrange  them  for 
one. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  recent  menu: — 

Trois  Freres  Proven^aux 

f.    c. 

Pain 0  25 

Beaune  premiere 3     0 

Puree  a  la  Creci 0  75 

Turbot  aux  capres 1   75 

Quart  poulet  aux  trufFes     ....  2  25 

Champignons   a  la  Proven^ale     .     .  1   25 

Gelee  aux  porames 1   25 

Cognac 0  30 

10  80 

A  heavy  bill  for  a  single  man;  and  a  heaiy  dinner, 
too;  for  I  have  said  before  I  have  a  great  appetite,  and 
when  a  thing  is  put  before  me  I  eat  it.  At  Brussels  I 
once  ate  fourteen  dishes;  and  have  seen  a  lady,  with 
whom  I  was  in  love,  at  the  table  of  a  German  grand- 
duke,  eat  seventeen  dishes.  This  is  a  positive,  though 
disgusting  fact.  Up  to  the  first  twelve  dishes  she  had  a 
very  good  chance  of  becoming  Mrs.  Titmarsh,  but  I 
have  lost  sight  of  her  since. 

Well,  then,  I  say  to  you,  if  you  have  self-command 
enough  to  send  away  half  your  soup,  order  some;  but 
you  are  a  poor  creature  if  you  do  after  all.    If  you  are  a 


572    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

man,  and  have  not  that  self-command,  don't  have  any. 
The  Frenchmen  cannot  Hve  without  it,  but  I  say  to  you 
that  you  are  better  than  a  Frenchman.  I  would  lay  even 
money  that  you  who  are  reading  this  are  more  than  five 
feet  seven  in  height,  and  weigh  eleven  stone;  while  a 
Frenchman  is  five  feet  four,  and  does  not  weigh  nine. 
The  Frenchman  has  after  his  soup  a  dish  of  vegetables, 
where  you  have  one  of  meat.  You  are  a  different  and 
superior  animal — a  French-beating  animal  (the  history 
of  hundreds  of  years  has  shown  you  to  be  so)  ;  you  must 
have,  to  keep  up  that  superior  weight  and  sinew,  which 
is  the  secret  of  your  superiority — as  for  public  institu- 
tions, bah!— you  must  have,  I  say,  simpler,  stronger, 
more  succulent  food. 

Eschew  the  soup,  then,  and  have  the  fish  up  at  once. 
It  is  the  best  to  begin  with  fish,  if  you  like  it,  as  every 
epicure  and  honest  man  should,  simply  boiled  or  fried  in 
the  English  fashion,  and  not  tortured  and  bullied  with 
oil,  onions,  wine,  and  herbs,  as  in  Paris  it  is  frequently 
done. 

Turbot  with  lobster-sauce  is  too  much;  turbot  a  la 
Hollandaise  vulgar ;  sliced  potatoes  swimming  in  melted 
butter  are  a  mean  concomitant  for  a  noble,  simple,  liberal 
fish:  turbot  with  capers  is  the  thing.  The  brisk  little 
capers  relieve  the  dulness  of  the  turbot ;  the  melted  butter 
is  rich,  bland,  and  calm— it  should  he,  that  is  to  say;  not 
that  vapid  watery  mixture  that  I  see  in  London;  not 
oiled  butter,  as  the  Hollanders  have  it,  but  melted,  with 
plenty  of  thickening  matter :  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it, 
but  I  know  it  when  it  is  good. 

They  melt  butter  well  at  the  "Rocher  de  Cancale," 
and  at  the  "  Freres." 

Well,  this  turbot  was  very  good ;  not  so  well,  of  course. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    573 

as  one  gets  it  in  London,  and  dried  rather  in  the  boiHng ; 
which  can't  be  helped,  unless  you  are  a  Lucullus  or  a 
Cambaceres  of  a  man,  and  can  afford  to  order  one  for 
yourself.  This  grandeur  d'dme  is  very  rare;  my  friend 
Tom  Willows  is  almost  the  only  man  I  know  who  pos- 
sessed it.  Yes,  *  *  *  one  of  the  wittiest  men  in  London, 
I  once  knew  to  take  the  whole  interieur  of  a  diligence 
(six  places) ,  because  he  was  a  little  unwell.  Ever  since 
I  have  admired  that  man.  He  understands  true  econ- 
omy; a  mean  extravagant  man  would  have  contented 
himself  with  a  single  place,  and  been  unwell  in  conse- 
quence. How  I  am  rambling  from  mj^  subject,  how- 
ever !  The  fish  was  good,  and  I  ate  up  every  single  scrap 
of  it,  sucking  the  bones  and  fins  curiously.  That  is  the 
deuce  of  an  appetite,  it  must  be  satisfied ;  and  if  you  were 
to  put  a  roast  donkey  before  me,  with  the  promise  of  a 
haunch  of  venison  afterwards,  I  believe  I  should  eat  the 
greater  part  of  the  long-eared  animal. 

A  pint  of  puree  a  la  Creci,  a  pain  de  gruau,  a  slice  of 
turbot — a  man  should  think  about  ordering  his  bill,  for 
he  has  had  enough  dinner;  but  no,  we  are  creatures  of 
superstition  and  habit,  and  must  have  one  regular  course 
of  meat.  Here  comes  the  poulet  a  la  Marengo:  I  hope 
they've  given  me  the  wing. 

No  such  thing.  The  poulet  a  la  Marengo  aux  truff  es 
is  bad — too  oilv  bv  far;  the  truffles  are  not  of  this  vear, 
as  thev  should  be,  for  there  are  cartloads  in  town:  thev 
are  poor  in  flavour,  and  have  only  been  cast  into  the 
dish  a  minute  before  it  was  brought  to  table,  and  what  is 
the  consequence?  They  do  not  flavour  the  meat  in  the 
least;  some  faint  trufflesque  savour  you  may  get  as  you 
are  crunching  each  individual  root,  but  that  is  all,  and 
that  all  not  worth  the  having ;  for  as  nothing  is  finer  than 


574    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

a  good  truffle,  in  like  manner  nothing  is  meaner  than  a 
bad  one.  It  is  merely  pompous,  windy,  and  pretentious, 
like  those  scraps  of  philosophy  with  which  a  certain 
eminent  novelist  decks  out  his  meat. 

A  mushroom,  thought  I,  is  better  a  thousand  times 
than  these  toug-h  flavourless  roots.  I  finished  every  one 
of  them,  however,  and  the  fine  fat  capon's  thigh  which 
they  surrounded.  It  was  a  disappointment  not  to  get  a 
Aving,  to  be  sure.  They  always  give  me  legs;  but,  after 
all,  with  a  little  good-humour  and  philosophy,  a  leg  of  a 
fine  Mans  capon  may  be  found  very  acceptable.  How 
plumj)  and  tender  the  rogue's  thigh  is!  his  very  drum- 
stick is  as  fat  as  the  calf  of  a  London  footman;  and  the 
sinews,  which  puzzle  one  so  over  the  lean  black  hen-legs 
in  London,  are  miraculously  whisked  away  from  the 
limb  before  me.  Look  at  it  now!  Half-a-dozeri  cuts 
with  the  knife  and  yonder  lies  the  bone — w^hite,  large, 
stark  naked,  without  a  morsel  of  flesh  left  upon  it,  soli- 
tary in  the  midst  of  a  pool  of  melted  butter. 

How  good  the  Burgundy  smacks  after  it!  I  always 
drink  Burgundy  at  this  house,  and  that  not  of  the  best. 
It  is  my  firm  opinion  that  a  third-rate  Burgundy,  and  a 
third-rate  claret — Beaune  and  Larose,  for  instance,  are 
better  than  the  best.  The  Bordeaux  enlivens,  the  Bur- 
gundy invigorates;  stronger  drink  only  inflames;  and 
where  a  bottle  of  good  Beaune  only  causes  a  man  to  feel 
a  certain  manly  warmth  of  benevolence — a  glow  some- 
thing like  that  produced  by  sunshine  and  gentle  exercise 
— a  bottle  of  Chambertin  will  set  all  your  frame  in  a 
fever,  swell  the  extremities,  and  cause  the  pulses  to 
throb.  Chambertin  should  never  be  handed  round  more 
than  twice;  and  I  recollect  to  this  moment  the  headache 
I  had  after  drinking  a  bottle  and  a  half  of  Romance 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    575 

gelee,  for  which  this  house  is  famous.  Somebody  else 
paid  for  the — (no  other  than  you,  O  Gustavus!  with 
w^hom  I  hope  to  have  many  a  tall  dinner  on  the  same 
charges)  — but  'twas  in  our  hot  youth,  ere  experience  had 
taught  us  that  moderation  was  happiness,  and  had  shown 
us  that  it  is  absurd  to  be  guzzling  wine  at  fifteen  francs 
a  bottle. 

By  the  way,  I  may  here  mention  a  story  relating  to 
some  of  Blackwood's  men,  who  dined  at  this  very  house. 
Fancy  the  fellows  trying  claret,  which  they  voted  sour; 
then  Burgundy,  at  which  they  made  wry  faces,  and  fin- 
ished the  evening  with  brandy  and  lunel!  This  is  what 
men  call  eating  a  French  dinner.  Willows  and  I  dined 
at  the  "  Rocher,"  and  an  English  family  there  feeding 
ordered — mutton  chops  and  potatoes.  Why  not,  in 
these  cases,  staj^  at  home?  Chops  are  better  chops  in 
England  (the  best  chops  in  the  world  are  to  be  had  at 
the  Reform  Club )  than  in  France.  What  could  literary 
men  mean  by  ordering  lunel?  I  always  rather  liked  the 
descriptions  of  eating  in  the  "Noctes."  They  were 
gross  in  all  cases,  absurdly  erroneous  in  many ;  but  there 
was  manliness  about  them,  and  strong  evidence  of  a 
great,  though  misdirected  and  uneducated,  genius  for 
victuals. 

Mushrooms,  thought  I,  are  better  than  those  tasteless 
truffles,  and  so  ordered  a  dish  to  try.  You  know  what 
a  Provengale  sauce  is,  I  have  no  doubt? — a  rich  savoury 
mixture  of  garlic  and  oil;  which,  with  a  little 'cayenne 
pepper  and  salt,  impart  a  pleasant  taste  to  the  plump 
little  mushrooms,  that  can't  be  described  but  may  be 
thought  of  with  pleasure. 

The  only  point  was,  how  will  they  agree  with  me  to- 
morrow morning?  for  the  fact  is,  I  had  eaten  an  im- 


576    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

meiise  quantity  of  them,  and  began  to  be  afraid !  Sup- 
pose we  go  and  have  a  glass  of  punch  and  a  cigar !  Oh, 
glorious  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal !  your  trees  are  leaf- 
less now,  but  what  matters  ?  Your  alleys  are  damp,  but 
what  of  that?  All  the  windows  are  blazing  with  light 
and  merriment;  at  least  two  thousand  happy  people  are 
pacing  up  and  down  the  colonades;  cheerful  sounds  of 
money  chinking  are  heard  as  you  pass  the  changers' 
shops ;  bustling  shouts  of  "  Gar9on ! "  and  "  Via,  Mon- 
sieur!" come  from  the  swinging  doors  of  the  restaura- 
teurs. Look  at  that  group  of  soldiers  gaping  at  Vef  our's 
window,  where  lie  lobsters,  pineapples,  fat  truffle-stuffed 
partridges,  which  make  me  almost  hungry  again.  I 
wonder  whether  those  three  fellows  with  mustachios  and 
a  toothpick  apiece  have  had  a  dinner,  or  only  a  toothpick. 
When  the  "  Trois  Freres  "  used  to  be  on  the  first-floor, 
and  had  a  door  leading  into  the  Rue  de  Valois,  as  well 
as  one  into  the  garden,  I  recollect  seeing  three  men  with 
toothpicks  mount  the  stair  from  the  street,  descend  the 
stair  into  the  garden,  and  give  themselves  as  great  airs 
as  if  they  had  dined  for  a  napoleon  a  head.  The  rogues 
are  lucky  if  they  have  had  a  sixteen-sous  dinner ;  and  the 
next  time  I  dine  abroad,  I  am  resolved  to  have  one  my- 
self. I  never  understood  why  Gil  Bias  grew  so  mighty 
squeamisli  in  the  affair  of  the  cat  and  the  hare.  Hare  is 
best,  but  why  should  not  cat  be  good? 

Being  on  the  subject  of  bad  dinners,  I  may  as  well 
ease  my  mind  of  one  that  occurred  to  me  some  few  days 
l)ack.  Wlicn  walking  in  tlie  Boulevard,  I  met  my 
friend,  Captain  Ilopkinson,  of  the  half-pay,  looking 
very  linngry,  and  indeed  going  to  dine.  In  most  cases 
one  resj)ects  the  dictum  of  a  half -pay  officer  regarding  a 
dining-housc.     He  knows  as  a  general  rule  where  the 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    577 

fat  of  the  land  lies,  and  how  to  take  his  share  of  that 
fat  in  the  most  economical  manner. 

"I  tell  you  what  I  do,"  says  Hopkinson;  "I  allow 
myself  fifteen  francs  a  week  for  dinner  (I  count  upon 
being  asked  out  twice  a  week) ,  and  so  have  a  three-franc 
dinner  at  Richard's,  where  for  the  extra  francs,  they 
give  me  an  excellent  bottle  of  wine,  and  make  me  com- 
fortable." 

"Why  shouldn't  they?"  I  thought.  "Here  is  a  man 
who  has  served  his  country,  and  no  doubt  knows  a  thing 
when  he  sees  it."  We  made  a  party  of  four,  therefore, 
and  went  to  the  Captain's  place  to  dine. 

We  had  a  private  room  au  second;  a  very  damp  and 
dirty  private  room,  with  a  faint  odour  of  stale  punch, 
and  dingy  glasses  round  the  walls. 

We  had  a  soup  of  puree  aux  croutons;  a  very  dingy 
dubious  soup  indeed,  thickened,  I  fancy,  with  brown 
paper,  and  flavoured  Avith  the  same. 

At  the  end  of  the  soup,  JNIonsieur  Landlord  came  up- 
stairs verj^  kindly,  and  gave  us  each  a  pinch  of  snuff  out 
of  a  gold  snufF-box. 

We  had  four  portions  of  anguille  a  la  Tartare,  very 
good  and  fresh  (it  is  best  in  these  j^laces  to  eat  fresh- 
water fish).  Each  portion  was  half  the  length  of  a 
man's  finger.  Dish  one  was  despatched  in  no  time,  and 
we  began  drinking  the  famous  wine  that  our  guide 
recommended.  I  have  cut  him  ever  since.  It  was  four- 
sous  wine, — weak,  vapid,  watery  stuff,  of  the  most  un- 
satisfactory nature. 

We  had  four  portions  of  gigot  aux  haricots — four 
flaps  of  bleeding  tough  meat,  cut  unnaturally  (that  is, 
with  the  grain:  the  French  gash  the  meat  in  parallel 
lines  with  the  bone) .    We  ate  these  up  as  we  might,  and 


578    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

the  landlord  was  so  good  as  to  come  up  again  and  favour 
us  with  a  pinch  from  his  gold  box. 

With  wonderful  unanimity,  as  we  were  told  the  place 
was  famous  for  civet  de  lievre,  we  ordered  civet  de 
lievre  for  four. 

It  came  up,  but  we  couldn't — really  we  couldn't.  We 
were  obliged  to  have  extra  dishes,  and  pay  extra.  Gus- 
tavus  had  a  mayonnaise  of  crayfish,  and  half  a  fowl;  I 
fell  to  work  upon  my  cheese,  as  usual,  and  availed 
myself  of  the  discretionary  bread.  We  went  away  dis- 
gusted, wretched,  unhappy.  We  had  had  for  our  three 
francs  bad  bread,  bad  meat,  bad  wine.  And  there  stood 
the  landlord  at  the  door  (and  be  hanged  to  him!)  grin- 
ning and  offering  his  box. 

We  don't  speak  to  Hopkinson  any  more  now  when 
we  meet  him.  How  can  you  trust  or  be  friendly  with  a 
man  who  deceives  you  in  this  miserable  way? 

What  is  the  moral  to  be  drawn  from  this  dinner  ?  It  is 
evident.  Avoid  pretence;  mistrust  shabby  elegance;  cut 
your  coat  according  to  your  cloth ;  if  you  have  but  a  few 
shillings  in  your  pocket,  aim  only  at  those  humble  and 
honest  meats  which  j^our  small  store  will  purchase.  At 
the  Cafe  Foy,  for  the  same  money,  I  might  have  had 

f.      s. 
A  delicious  cntrecote  and  potatoes     ....      1      5 

A  pint  of  excellent  wine 0   10 

A  little  bread  (meaning  a  great  deal)      ...      0      5 
A  dish  of  stewed  kidneys 10 

Or  at  Paolo's:  3     0 

A  bread  (as  before) 0     5 

A  heap  of  macaroni,  or  raviuoli 0   15 

A  Milanese  cutlet         10 

A  pint  of  wine 0  10 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    579 

And  ten  sous  for  any  other  luxury  3'our  imagination 
could  suggest.  The  raviuoli  and  the  cutlets  are  admir- 
ably dressed  at  Paolo's.  Does  any  healthy  man  need 
more? 

These  dinners,  I  am  perfectly  aware,  are  by  no  means 
splendid;  and  I  might,  with  the  most  perfect  ease,  write 
you  out  a  dozen  bills  of  fare,  each  more  splendid  and 
piquant  than  the  other,  in  which  all  the  luxuries  of 
the  season  should  figure.  But  the  remarks  here  set 
down  are  the  result  of  experience,  not  fancy,  and  in- 
tended only  for  persons  in  the  middling  classes  of  life. 
Very  few  men  can  afford  to  pay  more  than  five  francs 
daily  for  dinner.  Let  us  calmly,  then,  consider  what 
enjoj^ment  may  be  had  for  those  five  francs;  how,  by 
economy  on  one  day,  we  may  venture  upon  luxury  the 
next;  how,  by  a  little  forethought  and  care,  we  may 
be  happy  on  all  days.  Who  knew  and  studied  this 
cheap  philosophy  of  life  better  than  old  Horace  before 
quoted?  Sometimes  (when  in  luck)  he  chirupped  over 
cups  that  were  fit  for  an  archbishop's  supper;  some- 
times he  philosophised  over  his  own  ordinaire  at  his 
own  farm.  How  affecting  is  the  last  ode  of  the  first 
book: — 

To  his  Serving-hoy.  Ad  Ministram. 

Persicos  odi,  Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is, — 
Puer,  apparatus  ;  I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss ; 

Displicent  nexae  Your  silly  entrees  and  made  dishes 
Philyra  coronas :  Were  never  intended  for  us. 

Mitte  sectari  No  footman  in  lace  and  in  ruffles 
Rosa  quo  locorum  Need  dangle  behind  my  arm-chair ; 

Sera  moretur.  And  never  mind  seeking  for  truffles. 

Although  they  be  ever  so  rare. 


580    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

SimpHci  myrto  But  a  plain  leg  of  mutton,  my  Lucy, 
Nihil  allabores  I  pr'ythee  get  ready  at  three : 

Scdulus  curse:  Have  it  smoking,  and  tender,  and  juicy, 
Ncque  te  ministrum  And  what  better  meat  can  there  be? 

Dedecet  myrtus.  And  when  it  has  feasted  the  master, 
Neque  me  sub  arcta  'Twill  amply  suffice  for  the  maid ; 

Vite  bibentem.  Meanwhile  I  will  smoke  my  canaster, 

And  tipple  my  ale  in  the  shade. 

Not  that  this  is  the  truth  entirely  and  for  ever.  Hora- 
tius  Flaccus  was  too  wise  to  dislike  a  good  thing ;  but  it 
is  possible  that  the  Persian  apparatus  was  on  that  day 
bej^ond  his  means,  and  so  he  contented  himself  with 
humble  fare. 

A  gentleman,  by-the-by,  has  just  come  to  Paris  to 
whom  I  am  very  kind ;  and  who  will,  in  all  human  prob- 
ability, between  this  and  next  month,  ask  me  to  a  din- 
ner at  the  "  Rocher  de  Cancale."  If  so,  something  may 
occur  worth  writing  about ;  or  if  you  are  anxious  to  hear 
more  on  the  subject,  send  me  over  a  sum  to  my  address, 
to  be  laid  out  for  you  exclusively  in  eating.  I  give  you 
my  honour  I  will  do  you  justice,  and  account  for  every 
farthing  of  it. 

One  of  the  most  absurd  customs  at  present  in  use  is 
that  of  giving  your  friend — when  some  piece  of  good 
luck  happens  to  him,  such  as  an  appointment  as  Chief 
Judge  of  Owhyhee,  or  King's  advocate  to  Timbuctoo — 
of  giving  your  friend,  because,  forsooth,  he  may  have 
been  suddenly  elevated  from  200Z.  a  year  to  2,000Z.,  an 
enormous  dinner  of  congratulation. 

Last  year,  for  instance,  when  our  friend,  Fred  Jow- 
ling,  got  his  place  of  Commissioner  at  Quashumaboo,  it 
was  considered  absolutely  necessary  to  give  the  man  a 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    581 

dinner,  and  some  score  of  us  had  to  pay  about  fifty 
shillings  apiece  for  the  purpose.  I  had,  so  help  me 
Closes!  but  three  guineas  in  the  world  at  that  period; 
and  out  of  this  sum  the  hienseances  compelled  me  to 
sacrifice  five-sixths,  to  feast  myself  in  company  of  a 
man  gorged  with  wealth,  rattling  sovereigns  in  his 
pocket  as  if  they  had  been  so  much  dross,  and  capable  of 
treating  us  all  without  missing  the  sum  he  might  expend 
on  us. 

Jow  himself  allowed,  as  I  represented  the  case  to  him, 
that  the  arrangement  was  very  hard;  but  rej) resented, 
fairly  enough,  that  this  was  one  of  the  sacrifices  that  a 
man  of  the  world,  from  time  to  time,  is  called  to  make. 
"  You,  m}''  dear  Titmarsh,"  said  he,  "  know  very  well 
that  I  don't  care  for  these  grand  entertainments"  (the 
rogue,  he  is  a  five-bottle  man,  and  just  the  most  finished 
gourmet  of  my  acquaintance!)  ;  "you  know  that  I  am 
perfectly  convinced  of  your  friendship  for  me,  though 
you  join  in  the  dinner  or  not,  but — it  would  look  rather 
queer  if  j'ou  backed  out, — it  would  look  rather  queer.'' 
Jow  said  this  in  such  an  emphatic  way,  that  I  saw  I  must 
lay  down  my  money;  and  accordingly  ]Mr.  Lovegrove 
of  Blackwall,  for  a  certain  quantity  of  iced  punch,  cham- 
pagne, cider-cup,  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl,  received  the  last 
of  my  sovereigns. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  Bolter  got  a  place  too 
— Judge  Advocate  in  the  Topinambo  Islands,  of  3,000Z. 
a  year,  which,  he  said,  was  a  poor  remuneration  in  con- 
sideration of  the  practice  which  he  gave  up  in  town.  He 
may  have  practised  on  his  laundress,  but  for  anything 
else  I  believe  the  man  never  had  a  client  in  his  life. 

However,  on  his  way  to  Topinambo — by  INIarseilles, 
Egypt,  the  Desert,  the  Persian  Gulf,  and  so  on— Bolter 


582    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

arrived  in  Paris;  and  I  saw  from  his  appearance,  and 
his  manner  of  shaking  hands  with  me,  and  the  pecuHar 
way  in  which  he  talked  about  the  "  Rocher  de  Cancale," 
tliat  he  expected  we  were  to  give  him  a  dinner,  as  we  had 
to  JowHng. 

There  were  four  friends  of  Bolter's  in  the  capital  be- 
sides myself,  and  among  us  the  dinner  question  was 
mooted:  we  agreed  that  it  should  be  a  simple  dinner  of 
ten  francs  a  head,  and  this  was  the  bill  of  fare:  — 

1.  O^'sters  (common),  nice. 

2.  Oysters,  green  of  Marennes  (very  good). 

3.  Potage,  puree  de  gibier  (very  fair). 

As  we  were  English,  they  instantly  then  served  us,— 

4.  Sole  en  matelotte  Normande  (comme  9a). 

5.  Turbot  a  la  creme  au  gratin  (excellent). 

6.  Jardiniere  cutlets  (particularly  seedy). 

7.  Poulet  a  la  Marengo  (very  fair,  but  why  the  deuce  is  one 
always  to  be  pestered  by  it?) 

'    >    (Entrees  of  some  kind,  but  a  blank  in  my  memory.) 

10.  A  rot  of  chevreuiL 

11.  Ditto  of  ortolans  (very  hot,  crisp,  and  nice). 

12.  Ditto  of  partridges  (quite  good  and  plump). 

13.  Pointes  d'asperges. 

14.  Champignons  a  la  Proven9ale  (the  most  delicious  mush- 
rooms I  ever  tasted). 

15.  Pineapple  jelly. 

16.  Blanc,  or  red  mange. 

17.  Pencacks.  Let  ever3'body  who  goes  to  the  "Rocher" 
order  these  pancakes;  they  are  arranged  with  jelly  inside,  rolled 
up  between  various  couches  of  vermicelli,  flavoured  with  a  leetle 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING   583 

wine;  and,  b}'  everything  sacred,  the  most  delightful  meat  pos- 
sible. 

18.  Timbale  of  macaroni. 

The  jellies  and  sucreries  should  have  been  mentioned 
in  the  dessert,  and  there  were  numberless  plates  of  trifles, 
which  made  the  table  look  very  j^retty,  but  need  not  be 
mentioned  here. 

The  dinner  was  not  a  fine  one,  as  you  see.  No  rarities, 
no  truffles  even,  no  mets  de  primeur,  though  there  were 
peas  and  asparagus  in  the  market  at  a  pretty  fair  price. 
But  with  rarities  no  man  has  any  business  except  he 
have  a  colossal  fortune.  Hothouse  strawberries,  aspara- 
gus, &c.,  are,  as  far  as  my  experience  goes,  most  fade, 
mean,  and  tasteless  meats.  INIuch  better  to  have  a  simple 
dinner  of  twenty  dishes,  and  content  therewith,  than  to 
look  for  impossible  splendours  and  Apician  morsels. 

In  respect  of  wine.  Let  those  who  go  to  the  "  Ro- 
cher"  take  my  advice  and  order  JNIadeira.  They  have 
here  some  pale  old  East  India  very  good.  How  they 
got  it  is  a  secret,  for  the  Parisians  do  not  know  good 
I^Iadeira  when  they  see  it.  Some  very  fair  strong  young 
wine  may  be  had  at  the  Hotel  des  Americains,  in  the  Rue 
Saint  Honore;  as,  indeed,  all  West  India  produce— pine- 
apple rum,  for  instance.  I  may  say,  with  confidence,  that 
I  never  knew  what  rum  was  until  I  tasted  this  at  Paris. 

But  to  the  "  Rocher."  The  Maderia  was  the  best  wine 
served;  though  some  Burgundy,  handed  round  in  the 
course  of  dinner,  and  a  bottle  of  Montrachet,  similarly 
poured  out  to  us,  were  very  fair.  The  champagne  M^as 
decidedly  not  good— poor,  inflated,  thin  stuff.  They 
say  the  drink  we  swallow  in  England  is  not  genuine 
wine,  but  brandy-loaded  and  otherwise  doctored  for  the 


584    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

English  market;  but,  ah,  what  superior  wine!  Au  reste, 
the  French  will  not  generally  pay  the  money  for  the 
wine;  and  it  therefore  is  carried  from  an  ungrateful 
country  to  more  generous  climes,  where  it  is  better  ap- 
preciated. We  had  claret  and  speeches  after  dinner; 
and  very  possibly  some  of  the  persons  present  made  free 
with  a  jug  of  hot  water,  a  few  lumps  of  sugar,  and  the 
horrid  addition  of  a  glass  of  cognac.  There  can  be  no 
worse  practice  than  this.  After  a  dinner  of  eighteen 
dishes,  in  which  you  have  drunk  at  least  thirty-six  glasses 
of  wine— when  the  stomach  is  full,  the  brain  heavy,  the 
hands  and  feet  inflamed— when  the  claret  begins  to  pall 
— you,  forsooth,  must  gorge  yourself  with  brandy  and 
water,  and  puff  filthy  cigars.  For  shame!  Who  ever 
does  it?  Does  a  gentleman  drink  brandy  and  water? 
Does  a  man  who  mixes  in  the  societj^  of  the  lovelier  half 
of  humanity  befoul  himself  by  tobacco-smoke?  Fie, 
fie!  avoid  the  practice.  I  indulge  in  it  always  myself; 
but  that  is  no  reason  why  you,  a  young  man  entering 
into  the  world,  should  degrade  j'^ourself  in  any  such  way. 
No,  no,  my  dear  lad,  never  refuse  an  evening  party,  and 
avoid  tobacco  as  you  would  the  upas  plant. 

By  the  way,  not  having  my  purse  about  me  when  the 
above  dinner  was  given,  I  was  constrained  to  borrow 
from  Bolter,  whom  I  knew  more  intimately  than  the 
rest ;  and  nothing  grieved  me  more  than  to  find,  on  call- 
ing at  his  hotel  four  days  afterwards,  that  he  had  set  off 
by  the  mail  post  for  Marseilles.  Friend  of  my  youth, 
dear  dear  Bolter!  if  haply  this  trifling  page  should  come 
before  thine  eyes,  weary  of  perusing  the  sacred  rolls  of 
Themis  in  thy  far-off  island  in  the  Indian  Sea,  thou  wilt 
recall  our  little  dinner  in  the  little  room  of  the  Cancalian 
Coffee-house,  and  think  for  a  while  of  thy  friend! 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    585 

Let  us  now  mention  one  or  two  places  that  the  Briton, 
on  his  arrival  here,  should  frequent  or  avoid.  As  a  quiet 
dear  house,  where  there  are  some  of  the  best  rooms  in 
Paris — always  the  best  meat,  fowls,  vegetables,  &c. — we 
may  specially  recommend  jNIonsieur  Voisin's  cafe,  op- 
posite the  Church  of  the  Assumption.  A  very  decent 
and  lively  house  of  restauration  is  that  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  du  Faubourg  INlontmartre,  on  the  Boulevard. 
I  never  yet  had  a  good  dinner  at  Vefour's;  something  is 
alwaj^s  manque  at  the  place.  The  grand  Vatel  is  worthy 
of  note,  as  cheap,  j^retty,  and  quiet.  All  the  English 
houses  gentlemen  may  frequent  who  are  so  inclined; 
but  though  the  writer  of  this  has  many  times  dined  for 
sixteen  sous  at  Catcomb's,  cheek  by  jowl  with  a  French 
chasseur  or  a  labourer,  he  has,  he  confesses,  an  antipathj^ 
to  enter  into  the  confidence  of  a  footman  or  groom  of 
his  own  country. 

A  gentleman  who  purchases  pictures  in  this  town  was 
lately  waited  upon  by  a  lady,  who  said  she  had  in  her 
possession  one  of  the  greatest  rarities  in  the  world, — a 
picture  admirable,  too,  as  a  work  of  art, — no  less  than 
an  original  portrait  of  Shakspeare,  by  his  comrade,  the 
famous  John  Davis.  The  gentleman  rushed  off  im- 
mediately to  behold  the  wonder,  and  saw  a  head,  rudely 
but  vigorously  painted  on  panel,  about  twice  the  size  of 
life,  with  a  couple  of  hooks  drawn  through  the  top  part 
of  the  board,  under  which  was  written — 

THE    WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE, 
BY    JOHN    DAVIS 

"  Voyez  vous.  Monsieur,"  said  the  lady;  "  il  n'y  a  plus 
de  doute.  Le  portrait  de  Shakspeare,  du  celebre  Davis, 
et  signe  meme  de  lui ! ' 


586    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

I  remember  it  used  to  hang  up  in  a  silent  little  street 
in  the  Latin  quarter,  near  an  old  convent,  before  a  quaint 
old  quiet  tavern  that  I  loved.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  the 
old  name  written  up  in  a  strange  land,  and  the  well- 
known  friendly  face  greeting  one.  There  was  a  quiet 
little  garden  at  the  back  of  the  tavern,  and  famous  good 
roast  beef,  clean  rooms,  and  English  beer.  Where  are 
3^ou  now,  John  Davis?  Could  not  the  image  of  thy 
august  patron  preserve  thy  house  from  ruin,  or  rally  the 
faithful  around  it?  Are  you  unfortunate,  Davis?  Are 
you  a  bankrupt  ?  Let  us  hope  not.  I  swear  to  thee,  that 
when,  one  sunny  afternoon,  I  saw  the  ensign  of  thy 
tavern,  I  loved  thee  for  thy  choice,  and  doused  mj^"  cap 
on  entering  the  porch,  and  looked  around,  and  thought 
all  friends  were  here. 

In  the  queer  old  pleasant  novel  of  the  "  Spiritual 
Quixote  "  honest  Tugwell,  the  Sancho  of  the  story,  re- 
lates a  Warwickshire  legend,  which  at  the  time  Graves 
wrote  was  not  much  more  than  a  hundred  years  old ;  and 
by  which  it  appears  that  the  owner  of  New  Place  was  a 
famous  jesting  gentleman,  and  used  to  sit  at  his  gate 
of  summer  evenings,  cutting  the  queerest  merriest  jokes 
with  all  the  passers-b}^  I  have  heard  from  a  Warwick- 
shire clergyman  that  the  legend  still  exists  in  the  coun- 
try; and  Ward's  "Diary"  says  that  blaster  Shakspeare 
died  of  a  surfeit,  brought  on  by  carousing  with  a  literary 
friend  who  had  come  to  visit  him  from  London.  And 
wherefore  not?  Better  to  die  of  good  wine  and  good 
company  than  of  slow  disease  and  doctors'  doses.  Some 
geniuses  live  on  sour  misanthropy,  and  some  on  meek 
milk  and  water.  Let  us  not  deal  too  hardly  with  those 
that  are  of  a  jovial  sort,  and  indulge  in  the  decent  prac- 
tice of  the  cup  and  the  platter. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDISING    587 

A  word  or  two,  by  way  of  conclusion,  may  be  said 
about  the  numerous  pleasant  villages  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Paris,  or  rather  of  the  eating  and  drinking  to  be 
found  in  the  taverns  of  those  suburban  spots.  At  Ver- 
sailles, jNIonsieur  Duboux,  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs, 
has  a  good  cook  and  cellars,  and  will  gratify  you  with 
a  heavier  bill  than  is  paid  at  Very's  and  the  "  Rocher." 
On  the  beautiful  terrace  of  Saint  Germain,  looking 
over  miles  of  river  and  vineyard,  of  fair  villages  bask- 
ing in  the  meadows,  and  great  tall  trees  stretching  wide 
round  about,  you  may  sit  in  the  open  air  of  summer  even- 
ings, and  see  the  white  sj^ires  of  Saint  Denis  rising  in  the 
distance,  and  the  grey  arches  of  INIarly  to  the  right,  and 
before  you  the  city  of  Paris  with  innumerable  domes  and 
towers. 

Watching  these  objects,  and  the  setting  sun  gor- 
geously illumining  the  heavens  and  them,  you  may  have 
an  excellent  dinner  served  to  you  by  the  chef  of  ]Messire 
Gallois,  who  at  present  owns  the  pavilion  where  Louis 
XIV.  was  born.  The  maitre  d'Jwtel  is  from  the  "  Ro- 
cher," and  told  us  that  he  came  out  to  Saint  Germain 
for  the  sake  of  the  air.  The  only  drawback  to  the  enter- 
tainment is,  that  the  charges  are  as  atrociously  high  in 
price  as  the  dishes  provided  are  small  in  quantity;  and 
dining  at  this  pavilion  on  the  15th  of  April,  at  a  period 
when  a  hotte  of  asparagus  at  Paris  cost  only  three 
francs,  the  writer  of  this  and  a  chosen  associate  had  to 
pay  seven  francs  for  about  the  third  part  of  a  hotte  of 
asparagus  served  up  to  them  by  JNIessire  Gallois. 

Facts  like  these  ought  not  to  go  unnoticed.  There- 
fore let  the  readers  of  Eraser  s  Magazine  who  propose 
a  visit  to  Paris,  take  warning  by  the  unhappy  fate  of 
the  person  now  addressing  them,  and  avoid  the  place 


588    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

or  not,  as  thej^  think  fit.  A  bad  dinner  does  no  harm 
to  any  human  soul,  and  the  philosopher  partakes  of  such 
with  easy  resignation;  but  a  bad  and  dear  dinner  is 
enough  to  raise  the  anger  of  any  man,  however  naturally 
sweet-tempered,  and  he  is  bound  to  warn  his  acquain- 
tance of  it. 

With  one  parting  syllable  in  praise  of  the  "  Marron- 
niers  "  at  Bercy,  where  you  get  capital  eels,  fried  gud- 
geons fresh  from  the  Seine,  and  excellent  wine  of  the 
ordinary  kind,  this  discourse  is  here  closed.  "  En  telle 
ou  meilleure  pensee,  Beuueurs  tres  illustres  (car  a  vous 
non  a  aultres  sont  dedies  ces  escriptz) ,  reconfortez  vostre 
malheur,  et  beuuez  fraiz  si  faire  se  peult." 

(Fraser^s  Magazine,  June  1841.) 


MEN  AND  COATS 

THERE  is  some  peculiar  influence,  which  no  doubt 
the  reader  has  remarked  in  his  own  case,  for  it  has 
been  sung  by  ten  thousand  poets  or  versifying  persons, 
whose  ideas  you  adopt,  if  perchance,  as  is  barely  possible, 
you  have  none  of  vour  own — there  is,  I  say,  a  certain 
balmy  influence  in  the  spring-time,  which  brings  a  rush 
of  fresh  dancing  blood  into  the  veins  of  all  nature,  and 
causes  it  to  wear  a  peculiarly  festive  and  sporting  look. 
Look  at  the  old  Sun, — how  pale  he  was  all  the  winter 
through!  Some  days  he  was  so  cold  and  wretched  he 
would  not  come  out  at  all, — he  would  not  leave  his  bed 
till  eight  o'clock,  and  retired  to  rest,  the  old  sluggard !  at 
four;  but  lo!  comes  ISIay,  and  he  is  up  at  five, — he  feels, 
like  the  rest  of  us,  the  delicious  vernal  influence;  he  is 
always  walking  abroad  in  the  fresh  air,  and  his  jolly  face 
lights  up  anew!  Remark  the  trees;  they  have  dragged 
through  the  shivering  winter-time  without  so  much  as  a 
rag  to  cover  them,  but  about  INI  ay  thej^  feel  obligated  to 
follow  the  mode,  and  come  out  in  a  new  suit  of  green. 
The  meadows,  in  like  manner,  appear  invested  with  a 
variety  of  pretty  spring  fashions,  not  only  covering  their 
backs  with  a  brand-new  glossy  suit,  but  sporting  a  world 
of  little  coquettish  ornamental  gimcracks  that  are  suited 
to  the  season.  This  one  covers  his  robe  with  the  most 
delicate  twinkling  white  daisies;  that  tricks  himself  out 
with  numberless  golden  cowslips,  or  decorates  his  bosom 

589 


590    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

with  a  bunch  of  dusky  violets.  Birds  sing  and  make 
love;  bees  wake  and  make  honey;  horses  and  men  leave 
oif  their  shaggy  winter  clothing  and  turn  out  in  fresh 
coats.  The  only  animal  that  does  not  feel  the  power  of 
spring  is  that  selfish,  silent,  and  cold-blooded  beast,  the 
oyster,  who  shuts  himself  up  for  the  best  months  of  the 
3^ear,  and  with  whom  the  climate  disagrees. 

Some  people  have  wondered  how  it  is  that  what  is 
called  "the  season"  in  London  should  not  begin  until 
spring.  What  an  absurd  subject  for  wondering  at! 
How  could  the  London  season  begin  at  any  other  time? 
How  could  the  great,  black,  bilious,  overgrown  city, 
stifled  by  gas,  and  fogs,  and  politics,  ever  hope  to  have  a 
season  at  all,  unless  nature  with  a  violent  eiFort  came  to 
its  aid  about  Easter-time,  and  infused  into  it  a  little 
spring  blood?  The  town  of  London  feels  then  the  in- 
fluences of  the  spring,  and  salutes  it  after  its  fashion. 
The  parks  are  green  for  about  a  couple  of  months.  Lady 
Smigsmag,  and  other  leaders  of  the  ton,  give  their  series 
of  grand  parties ;  Gunter  and  Grange  come  forward  with 
iced-creams  and  champagnes;  ducks  and  green-peas 
burst  out ;  the  river  Thames  blossoms  with  whitebait ;  and 
Alderman  Birch  announces  the  arrival  of  fresh  lively 
turtle.  If  there  are  no  birds  to  sing  and  make  love,  as  in 
country  places,  at  least  there  are  coveys  of  opera-girls 
that  frisk  and  hop  about  airily,  and  Rubini  and  Lablache 
to  act  as  a  couple  of  nightingales.  "A  lady  of  fashion 
remarked,"  says  Dyson  in  the  Morning  Post,  "  that  for 
all  persons  pretending  to  hold  a  position  in  genteel  so- 
ciety,"—I  forget  the  exact  words,  but  the  sense  of  them 
remains  indelibly  engraven  upon  my  mind,  — "for  am^ 
one  pretending  to  take  a  place  in  genteel  society  two 
things  are  indispensable.    And  what  are  these?— a  bou- 


MEN  AND  COATS  591 

QUET    AND    AX    EMBROIDERED    POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.*' 

This  is  a  self-evident  truth.  Dyson  does  not  furnish  the 
bouquets— he  is  not  a  market-gardener— he  is  not  the 
goddess  Flora ;  but,  a  town-man,  he  knows  what  the  sea- 
son requires,  and  furnishes  his  contribution  to  it.  The 
lilies  of  the  field  are  not  more  wdiite  and  graceful  than  his 
embroidered  nose  ornaments,  and  with  a  little  eau  des 
cent  milles  fleurs,  not  more  fragrant.  Dyson  knows  that 
pocket-handkerchiefs  are  necessary,  and  has  "  an  express 
from  Longchamps  "  to  bring  them  over. 

Whether  they  are  picked  from  ladies'  pockets  by  Dy- 
son's couriers,  who  then  hurry  breathless  across  the  Chan- 
nel with  them,  no  one  need  ask.  But  the  gist  of  Dyson's 
advertisement,  and  of  all  the  preceding  remarks,  is  this 
great  truth,  which  need  not  be  carried  out  further  by  any 
illustrations  from  geography  or  natural  history,— that  in 
the  spring-time  all  nature  renews  itself.  There  is  not  a 
country  newspaper  published  in  England  that  does  not 
proclaim  the  same  fact.  IMadame  Hoggin  informs  the 
nobility  and  gentry  of  Penzance  that  her  new  and  gigan- 
tic stock  of  Parisian  fashions  has  just  arrived  from  Lon- 
don. jNIademoiselle  M'Whirter  begs  to  announce  to  the 
haut-ton  in  the  environs  of  John-o'-Groat's  that  she  has 
this  instant  returned  from  Paris,  with  her  dazzling  and 
beautiful  collection  of  spring  fashions. 

In  common  with  the  birds,  the  trees,  the  meadows, — 
in  common  with  the  Sun,  with  Dyson,  with  all  nature,  in 
fact— I  yielded  to  the  irresistible  spring  impulse— /io?7io 
smn,  nihil  hinnani  a  me  alienum,  &c.  —  I  acknowledged 
the  influence  of  the  season,  and  ordered  a  new  coat,  waist- 
coat, and  tr in  short,  a  new  suit.    Now,  having  worn 

it  for  a  few  days,  and  studied  the  effect  which  it  has  upon 
the  wearer,  I  thought  that  perhaps  an  essay  upon  new 


592    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

clothes  and  their  influence  might  be  attended  with  some 
23rofit  both  to  the  public  and  the  writer. 

One  thino^  is  certain.  A  man  does  not  have  a  new  suit 
of  clothes  every  day;  and  another  general  proposition 
may  be  advanced,  that  a  man  in  sporting  a  coat  for  the 
first  time  is  either 

agreeably  affected,  or 
disagreeably  affected,  or 
not  affected  at  all, — 

which  latter  case  I  don't  believe.  There  is  no  man,  how- 
ever accustomed  to  new  clothes,  but  must  feel  some  senti- 
ment of  pride  in  assuming  them, — no  philosopher,  how- 
ever calm,  but  must  remark  the  change  of  raiment.  Men 
consent  to  wear  old  clothes  for  ever, — nay,  feel  a  pang 
at  parting  with  them  for  new;  but  the  first  appearance 
of  a  new  garment  is  always  attended  with  exultation. 

Even  the  feeling  of  shyness,  which  makes  a  man 
ashamed  of  his  splendour,  is  a  proof  of  his  high  sense  of 
it.  What  causes  an  individual  to  sneak  about  in  corners 
and  shady  places,  to  avoid  going  out  in  new  clothes  of  a 
Sunday,  lest  he  be  mistaken  for  a  snob?  Sometimes  even 
to  go  the  length  of  ordering  his  servant  to  powder  his 
new  coat  with  sand,  or  to  wear  it  for  a  couple  of  days, 
and  remove  the  gloss  thereof?  Are  not  these  manoeuvres 
proofs  of  the  effects  of  new  coats  upon  mankind  in  gen- 
eral? 

As  this  notice  will  occupy  at  least  ten  pages  (for  a  rea- 
son that  may  be  afterwards  mentioned),  I  intend,  like 
the  great  philosophers  who  have  always  sacrificed  them- 
selves for  the  public  good— imbibing  diseases,  poisons, 
and  medicines,  submitting  to  operations,  inhaling  as- 
phyxiations,  &c.,  in  order  that  they  might  note  in  them- 


MEN  AND  COATS  593 

selves  the  particular  phenomena  of  the  case,— in  like 
manner,  I  say,  I  intend  to  write  this  essay  in  five  several 
coats,  viz.: — 

1.  ^ly  old  single-breasted  black  frock-coat,  with 
patches  at  the  elbows,  made  to  go  into  mourning  for 
William  IV. 

2.  My  double-breasted  green  ditto,  made  last  year  but 
one,  and  still  very  good,  but  rather  queer  about  the  lin- 
ing, and  snowj'-  in  the  seams. 

3.  ^ly  grand  black  dress-coat,  made  by  ^lessrs. 
Sparding  and  Spohrer,  of  Conduit  Street,  in  1836.  A 
little  scouring  and  renovating  having  given  it  a  stylish 
look  even  now ;  and  it  was  always  a  splendid  cut. 

4.  INIy  worsted-net  jacket  that  my  uncle  Harry  gave 
me  on  his  departure  for  Italy.  This  jacket  is  wadded  in- 
side with  a  wool  like  that  one  makes  Welsh  wigs  of ;  and, 
though  not  handsome,  amazing  comfortable,  with  pock- 
ets all  over. 

5.  ^Iy  new  frock-coat. 

Now,  will  the  reader  be  able  to  perceive  any  difference 
in  the  style  of  writing  of  each  chapter?  I  fancy  I  see 
it  myself  clearly ;  and  am  convinced  that  the  new  frock- 
coat  chapter  will  be  infinitely  more  genteel,  spruce,  and 
glossy  than  the  woollen- jacket  chapter;  which,  again, 
shall  be  more  comfortable  than  the  poor,  seedy,  patched 
William-the-Fourth's  black-frock  chapter.  The  double- 
breasted  green  one  will  be  dashing,  manly,  free-and- 
easy;  and,  though  not  fashionable,  yet  with  a  well-bred 
look.  The  grand  black-dress  chapter  will  be  solemn  and 
grave,  devilish  tight  about  the  waist,  abounding  in  bows 
and  shrugs,  and  small  talk ;  it  will  have  a  great  odour  of 
bohea  and  pound-cake;  perhaps  there  will  be  a  faint 
whiff  of  negus ;  and  the  tails  will  whisk  up  in  a  quadrille 


594    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

at  the  end,  or  sink  down,  mayhap,  on  a  supper-table 
bench  before  a  quantity  of  trifles,  lobster-salads,  and 
champagnes;  and  near  a  lovely  blushing  white  satin 
skirt,  which  is  continually  crying  out,  "  O  you  ojous 
creature!"  or,  "O  you  naughty  satirical  man,  you!" 
"  And  do  you  really  believe  Miss  ^lofFat  dyes  her  hair?  " 
"And  have  you  read  that  sweet  thing  in  the  '  Keepsake  ' 
b)''  Lord  Diddle?"  "Well,  only  one  leetle  leetle  drop, 
for  mamma  will  scold;"  and  "O  you  horrid  Mr.  Tit- 
marsh,  you  have  filled  my  glass,  I  declare! "  Dear  white 
satin  skirt,  what  pretty  shoulders  and  eyes  you  have! 
what  a  nice  white  neck,  and  bluish-mottled,  round,  inno- 
cent arms!  how  fresh  )''ou  are  and  candid!  and  ah,  my 
dear,  what  a  fool  you  are ! 

v|v  *|»  TfT  ^|« 

I  don't  have  so  many  coats  nowadays  as  in  the  days  of 
hot  youth,  when  the  figure  was  more  elegant,  and  credit, 
mayhap,  more  plenty;  and,  perhaps,  this  accounts  for 
the  feeling  of  unusual  exultation  that  comes  over  me  as 
I  assume  this  one.  Look  at  the  skirts  how  they  are  shin- 
ing in  the  sun,  with  a  delicate  gloss  upon  them, — that 
evanescent  gloss  that  passes  away  with  the  first  freshness 
of  the  coat,  as  the  bloom  does  from  the  peach.  A  friend 
meets  you,— he  salutes  you  cordially,  but  looks  puzzled 
for  a  moment  at  the  change  in  your  appearance.  "  I 
have  it !  "  says  Jones.  "  Hobson,  my  boy,  I  congratulate 
you,— a  new  coat,  and  very  neat  cut,  — puce-coloured 
frock,  brown  silk  lining,  brass  buttons,  and  velvet  collar, 
—  quite  novel,  and  quiet  and  genteel  at  the  same  time." 
You  say,  "  Pooh,  Jones!  do  you  think  so,  though? "  and 
at  the  same  time  turn  round  just  to  give  him  a  view  of 
the  back,  in  which  there  is  not  a  single  wrinkle.  You 
find  suddenly  that  you  must  buy  a  new  stock ;  that  your 


MEN  AND  COATS  595 

old  Berlin  gloves  will  never  do ;  and  that  a  pair  of  three- 
and-sixpenny  kids  are  absolutely  necessary.  You  find 
your  boots  are  cruelly  thick,  and  fancy  that  the  attention 
of  the  world  is  accurately  divided  between  the  new  frock- 
coat  and  the  patch  on  your  great  toe.  It  is  ver}^  odd  that 
that  patch  did  not  annoy  you  yesterday  in  the  least  de- 
gree,—that  you  looked  with  a  good-natured  grin  at  the 
old  sausage-fingered  Berlin  gloves,  bulging  out  at  the 
end  and  concaved  like  spoons.      But  there  is  a  change 

in  the  man,   without  any  doubt.     Notice   Sir  31 

O'D :  those  who  know  that  celebrated  military  man 

by  sight  are  aware  of  one  peculiarity  in  his  appearance — 
his  hat  is  never  brushed.  I  met  him  one  day  with  the 
beaver  brushed  quite  primly;  and  looking  hard  at  the 
baronet  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  this  phenomenon,  saw 
that  he  had  a  new  coat.  Even  his  great  spirit  was  obliged 
to  yield  to  the  power  of  the  coat,— he  made  a  genteel 
effort,— he  awoke  up  from  his  habitual  Diogenic  care- 
lessness ;  and  I  have  no  doubt,  had  Alexander,  before  he 
visited  the  cvnic,  ordered  someone  to  fiinff  a  new  robe 
into  his  barrel,  but  that  he  would  have  found  the  fellow 
prating  and  boasting  with  all  the  airs  of  a  man  of  fash- 
ion, and  talking  of  tilburies,  opera-girls,  and  the  last  ball 
at  Devonshire  House,  as  if  the  brute  had  been  used  all 
his  life  to  no  other  company.  Fie  upon  the  swaggering 
vulgar  bully!  I  have  always  wondered  how  the  Prince 
of  jMacedon,  a  gentleman  by  birth,  with  an  excellent 
tutor  to  educate  him,  could  have  been  imposed  upon  by 
the  grovelHng,  obscene,  envious  tub-man,  and  could  have 
uttered  the  speech  we  know  of.  It  was  a  humbug,  de- 
pend upon  it,  attributed  to  his  Majesty  by  some  mala- 
droit hon-mot  maker  of  the  Court,  and  passed  subse- 
quently for  genuine  Alexandrine. 


596    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  for  the  morahst  earnestly  to 
point  out  to  persons  moving  in  a  modest  station  of  life 
the  necessity  of  not  having  coats  of  too  fashionable  and 
rakish  a  cut.  Coats  have  been,  and  will  be  in  the  course 
of  this  disquisition,  frequently  compared  to  the  floAvers 
of  the  field ;  like  them  they  bloom  for  a  season,  like  them 
they  grow  seedy  and  they  fade. 

Can  you  afford  always  to  renew  your  coat  when  this 
fatal  hour  arrives?  Is  your  coat  like  the  French  mon- 
archy, and  does  it  never  die?  Have,  then,  clothes  of  the 
newest  fashion,  and  pass  on  to  the  next  article  in  the 
Magazine,— unless,  always,  you  prefer  the  style  of  this 

one. 

But  while  a  shabby  coat,  worn  in  a  manly  way,  is  a 

bearable,  nay,  sometimes  a  pleasing  object,  reminding 
one  of  "  a  good  man  struggling  with  the  storms  of  fate," 
whom  Mr.  Joseph  Addison  has  represented  in  his  trag- 
edy of  "  Cato," — while  a  man  of  a  certain  character  may 
look  august  and  gentlemanlike  in  a  coat  of  a  certain  cut, 
— it  is  quite  impossible  for  a  person  who  sports  an  ultra- 
fashionable  costume  to  wear  it  with  decency  beyond  a 
half-year  say.  My  coats  always  last  me  two  years,  and 
any  man  who  knows  me  knows  how  I  look;  but  I  defy 
Count  d'Orsay  thus  publicly  to  wear  a  suit  for  seven 
hundred  and  thirty  days  consecutively,  and  look  respect- 
able at  the  end  of  that  time.     In  like  manner  I  would 

defy,  without  any  disrespect,  the  Marchioness  of  X , 

or  her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Z ,  to  sport  a  white  satin 

gown  constantly  for  six  months  and  look  decent.  There 
is  iwoiwiety  in  dress.  Ah,  my  poor  Noll  Goldsmith,  in 
your  famous  plum-coloured  velvet !  I  can  see  thee  strut- 
ting down  Fleet  Street,  and  stout  old  Sam  rolling  behind 
as  Maister  Bos  well  pours  some  Caledonian  jokes  into  his 


MEN  AND  COATS  597 

ear,  and  grins  at  the  poor  vain  poet.  In  what  a  pretty 
condition  will  Goldy's  puce-coloured  velvet  be  about  two 
months  hence,  when  it  is  covered  with  dust  and  grease, 
and  he  comes  in  his  slatternly  finery  to  borrow  a  guinea 
of  his  friend. 

A  friend  of  the  writer's  once  made  him  a  present  of 
two  very  handsome  gold  pins ;  and  what  did  the  author 
of  this  notice  do?  Why,  with  his  usual  sagacity,  he  in- 
stantly sold  the  pins  for  five-and-twenty  shillings,  the 
cost  of  the  gold,  knowing  full  well  that  he  could  not 
afford  to  live  up  to  such  fancy  articles.  If  you  sport 
handsome  gold  pins,  you  must  have  everything  about  you 
to  match.  Nor  do  I  in  the  least  agree  with  my  friend 
Bosk,  who  has  a  large  amethyst  brooch,  and  fancies  that, 
because  he  sticks  it  in  his  shirt,  his  atrocious  shabby 
stock  and  surtout  may  pass  muster.  No,  no !  let  us  be  all 
peacock,  if  you  please ;  but  one  peacock's  feather  in  your 
tail  is  a  verv  absurd  ornament,  and  of  course  all  moder- 
ate  men  will  avoid  it.  I  remember,  when  I  travelled  with 
Captain  Cook  in  the  South  Sea  Islands,  to  have  seen 
Quashamaboo  with  nothing  on  him  but  a  remarkably 
fine  cocked-hat,  his  queen  sported  a  red  coat,  and  one  of 
the  princesses  went  frisking  about  in  a  pair  of  leather 
breeches,  much  to  our  astonishment. 

This  costume  was  not  much  more  absurd  than  poor 
Goldsmith's,  who  might  be  very  likely  seen  drawing 
forth  from  the  gold-embroidered  pocket  of  his  plum-col- 
oured velvet  a  pat  of  butter  wrapped  in  a  cabbage-leaf, 
a  pair  of  farthing  rushlights,  an  onion  or  two,  and  a  bit 
of  bacon. 

I  recollect  meeting  a  great,  clever,  ruffianly  boor  of  a 
man,  who  had  made  acquaintance  with  a  certain  set  of 
very  questionable  aristocracy,  and  gave  himself  the  air 


598    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

of  a  man  of  fashion.  He  had  a  coat  made  of  the  very 
pattern  of  Lord  Toggery's— a  green  frock,  a  green  vel- 
vet collar,  a  green  lining:  a  plate  of  spring  cabbage  is 
not  of  a  brisker,  brighter  hue.  This  man,  who  had  been 
a  shopkeeper's  apprentice  originally,  now  declared  that 
every  man  who  was  a  gentleman  wore  white  kid  gloves, 
and  for  a  certain  period  sported  a  fresh  pair  every  day. 

One  hot,  clear,  sunshiny  July  day,  walking  down  the 
Haymarket  at  two  o'clock,  I  heard  a  great  yelling  and 
shouting  of  blackguard  boys,  and  saw  that  they  were 
hunting  some  object  in  their  front. 

The  object  approached  us, — it  was  a  green  object, — 
a  green  coat,  collar,  and  lining,  and  a  pair  of  pseudo- 
white  kid  gloves.  The  gloves  were  dabbled  with  mud 
and  blood,  the  man  was  bleeding  at  the  nose,  and  slaver- 
ing at  the  mouth,  and  yelling  some  unintelligible  verses 
of  a  song,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  across  the  sunshiny 
street,  with  the  blackguard  boys  in  chase. 

I  turned  round  the  corner  of  Vigo  Lane  with  the  ve- 
locity of  a  cannon-ball,  and  sprang  panting  into  a  baker's 
shop.  It  was  Mr.  Bludyer,  our  London  Diogenes.  Have 
a  care,  ye  gay  dashing  Alexanders!  how  ye  influence 
such  men  by  too  much  praise,  or  debauch  them  by  too 
much  intimacy.  How  much  of  that  man's  extravagance, 
and  absurd  aristocratic  airs,  and  subsequent  roueries,  and 
cutting  of  old  acquaintance,  is  to  be  attributed  to  his  imi- 
tation of  Lord  Toggery's  coat ! 

Actors  of  the  lower  sort  affect  very  much  braiding  and 
fur  collars  to  their  frock-coats;  and  a  very  curious  and 
instructive  sight  it  is  to  behold  these  personages  with  pale 
lean  faces,  and  hats  cocked  on  one  side,  in  a  sort  of 
pseudo-military  trim.  One  sees  many  such  sauntering 
under  Drury  Lane  Colonnade,  or  about  Bow  Street, 


MEN  AND  COATS  599 

with  sickly  smiles  on  their  faces.  Poor  fellows,  poor  fel- 
lows !  how  much  of  their  character  is  embroidered  in  that 
seedy  braiding  of  their  coats!  Near  five  o'clock,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Rupert  Street  and  the  Haymarket, 
you  may  still  occasionally  see  the  old,  shabby,  manly, 
gentlemanly,  half -pay  frock :  but  the  braid  is  now  grow- 
ing scarce  in  London;  and  your  military  man,  with 
reason  perhaps,  dresses  more  like  a  civilian;  and  under- 
standing life  better,  and  the  means  of  making  his  half- 
crown  go  as  far  as  five  shillings  in  former  days,  has 
usually  a  club  to  dine  at,  and  leaves  Rupert  Street  eating- 
houses  to  persons  of  a  different  grade, — to  some  of  those 
dubious  dandies  whom  one  sees  swaggering  in  Regent 
Street  in  the  afternoon,  or  to  those  gay  spruce  gentlemen 
whom  3'ou  encounter  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  at  ten 
minutes  after  five,  on  their  way  westward  from  the  City. 
Look  at  the  same  hour  at  the  Temple,  and  issuing  thence 
and  from  Essex  Street,  you  behold  many  scores  of  neat 
barristers,  who  are  walking  to  the  joint  and  half  a  pint 
of  Marsala  at  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Club.  They 
are  generally  tall,  slim,  proper,  well-dressed  men,  but 
their  coats  are  too  prim  and  professionally  cut.  Indeed, 
I  have  generally  remarked  that  their  clerks,  who  leave 
chambers  about  the  same  time,  have  a  far  more  rakish  and 
fashionable  air;  and  if,  my  dear  madam,  you  will  con- 
descend to  take  a  beefsteak  at  the  "  Cock,"  or  at  some  of 
the  houses  around  Covent  Garden,  you  will  at  once 
allow  that  this  statement  is  perfectly  correct. 

I  have  always  had  rather  a  contempt  for  a  man  who, 
on  arriving  at  home,  deliberately  takes  his  best  coat  from 
his  back  and  adopts  an  old  and  shabby  one.  It  is  a  mean 
precaution.  Unless  very  low  in  the  world  indeed,  one 
should  be  above  a  proceeding  so  petty.    Once  I  knew  a 


600    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

French  lady  very  smartly  dressed  in  a  black  velvet  pel- 
isse, a  person  whom  I  admired  very  much, — and  indeed 
for  the  matter  of  that  she  was  very  fond  of  me,  but  that 
is  neither  here  nor  there, — I  say  I  knew  a  French  lady 
of  some  repute  who  used  to  wear  a  velvet  pelisse,  and 
how  do  you  think  the  back  of  it  was  arranged? 

Why,  pelisses  are  worn,  as  you  know,  very  full  behind ; 
and  IMadame  de  Tournuronval  had  actually  a  strip  of 
black  satin  let  into  the  hinder  part  of  her  dress,  over 
which  the  velvet  used  to  close  wdth  a  spring  when  she 
walked  or  stood,  so  that  the  satin  was  invisible.  But 
when  she  sat  on  a  chair,  especially  one  of  the  cane-bot- 
tomed species,  Euphemia  gave  a  loose  to  her  spring,  the 
velvet  divided  on  each  side,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  satin. 

Was  it  an  authorised  stratagem  of  millinery?  Is  a 
woman  under  any  circumstances  permitted  to  indulge  in 
such  a  manoeuvre?  I  say,  No.  A  woman  with  such  a 
gown  is  of  a  mean  deceitful  character.  Of  a  woman 
who  has  a  black  satin  j^atch  behind  her  velvet  gown,  it 
is  right  that  one  should  speak  ill  behind  the  back;  and 
when  I  saw  Euphemia  Tournuronval  spread  out  her 
wings  {non  usitatce  yennce,  but  what  else  to  call  them?) 
— spread  out  her  skirts  and  ensure  them  from  injury  by 
means  of  this  dastardly  ruse,  I  quitted  the  room  in  dis- 
gust, and  never  was  intimate  with  her  as  before.  A 
widow  I  know  she  was;  I  am  certain  she  looked  sweet 
upon  me;  and  she  said  she  had  a  fortune,  but  I  don't 
believe  it.  Away  with  parsimonious  ostentation!  That 
woman,  had  I  married  her,  would  either  have  turned  out 
a  swindler,  or  we  should  have  had  boiiilli  five  times  a 
week  for  dinner,— houilli  off  silver,  and  hungry  lacquej^s 
in  lace  looking  on  at  the  windy  meal! 

The  old  coat  plan  is  not  so  base  as  the  above  female 


MEN  AND  COATS  601 

arrangement,  but  say  what  you  will,  it  is  not  high-minded 
and  honourable  to  go  out  in  a  good  coat,  to  flaunt  the 
streets  in  it  with  an  easy  degage  air,  as  if  you  always 
wore  such,  and  returning  home  assume  another  under 
pretext  of  dressing  for  dinner.  There  is  no  harm  in 
putting  on  j^our  old  coat  of  a  morning,  or  in  wearing  one 
always.  Common  reason  points  out  the  former  precau- 
tion, which  is  at  once  modest  and  manly.  If  your  coat 
pinches  you,  there  is  no  harm  in  changing  it ;  if  you  are 
going  out  to  dinner,  there  is  no  harm  in  changing  it  for  a 
better.  But  I  say  the  plan  of  habitual  changing  is  a 
base  one,  and  only  fit  for  a  man  at  last  extremities;  or 
for  a  clerk  in  the  City,  who  hangs  up  his  best  garment 
on  a  peg,  both  at  the  office  and  at  home;  or  for  a  man 
who  smokes,  and  has  to  keep  his  coat  for  tea-parties, — 
a  paltry  precaution,  however,  this.  If  you  like  smoking, 
why  shouldn't  you?  If  you  do  smell  a  little  of  tobacco, 
where's  the  harm  ?  The  smell  is  not  pleasant,  but  it  does 
not  kill  anybody.  If  the  lady  of  the  house  does  not  like 
it,  she  is  quite  at  liberty  not  to  invite  you  again.  Et 
puis?  Bah!  Of  what  age  are  you  and  I?  Have  we 
lived?  Have  we  seen  men  and  cities?  Have  we  their 
manners  noted,  and  understood  their  idiosvncrasv? 
Without  a  doubt!  And  what  is  the  truth  at  which  we 
have  arrived?  This, — that  a  pipe  of  tobacco  is  many  an 
hour  in  the  day,  and  many  a  week  in  the  month,  a  thou- 
sand times  better  and  more  agreeable  society  than  the 
best  Miss,  the  loveliest  Mrs.,  the  most  beautiful  Baron- 
ess, Countess,  or  M^hat  not.  Go  to  tea-parties,  those  who 
will ;  talk  fiddle-faddle,  such  as  like ;  many  men  there  are 
who  do  so,  and  are  a  little  partial  to  music,  and  know  how 
to  twist  the  leaf  of  the  song  that  Miss  Jemima  is  singing 
exactly  at  the  right  moment.     Very  good.     These  are 


602    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

the  enjoj-ments  of  dress-coats;  but  men, — are  they  to  be 
put  off  with  such  fare  for  ever?  No!  One  goes  out 
to  dinner,  because  one  hkes  eating  and  drinking;  be- 
cause the  very  act  of  eating  and  drinking  opens  the  heart, 
and  causes  the  tongue  to  wag.  But  evening  parties! 
Oh,  milk  and  water,  bread  and  butter!  No,  no,  the  age 
is  wiser!  The  manly  youth  frequents  his  club  for  com- 
mon society,  has  a  small  circle  of  amiable  ladies  for 
friendly  intercourse,  his  book  and  his  pipe  always. 

Do  not  be  angry,  ladies,  that  one  of  your  most  ardent 
and  sincere  admirers  should  seem  to  speak  disparagingly 
of  your  merits,  or  recommend  his  fellows  to  shun  the 
society  in  which  you  ordinarily  assemble.  No,  miss,  I 
am  the  man  who  respects  you  truly, — the  man  who  re- 
spects and  loves  you  when  you  are  most  lovely  and  re- 
spectable,—  in  your  families,  my  dears.  A  wife,  a 
mother,  a  daughter, — has  God  made  an}i;hing  more 
beautiful?  A  friend,— can  one  find  a  truer,  kinder,  a 
more  generous  and  enthusiastic  one,  than  a  woman  often 
will  be  ?  All  that  has  to  do  with  your  hearts  is  beautiful, 
and  in  everything  with  which  they  meddle,  a  man  must 
be  a  brute  not  to  love  and  honour  you. 

But  Miss  Rudge  in  blue  crape,  squeaking  romances  at 
a  harp,  or  Miss  Tobin  dancing  in  a  quadrille,  or  Miss 
Blogg  twisting  round  the  room  in  the  arms  of  a  lumber- 
ing Lifeguardsman;— what  are  these?— so  many  vani- 
ties. With  the  operations  here  described  the  heart  has 
nothing  to  do.  Has  the  intellect?  O  ye  gods!  think  of 
Miss  Rudge's  intellect  while  singing,— 

Away,  away  to  the  mountain's  brow, 
Where  the  trees  are  gently  waving; 
Away,  away  to  the  fountain's  flow, 
,^;  Where  the  streams  are  softly  la-a-ving! 


MEN  AND  COATS  603 

These  are  the  words  of  a  real  song  that  I  Have  heard 
man}"  times,  and  rapturously  applauded  too.  Such  a 
song,  such  a  poem, — such  a  songster! 

Xo,  madam,  if  I  want  to  hear  a  song  sung,  I  will  pay 
eight-and-sixpence  and  listen  to  Tamburini  and  Per- 
siani.  I  will  not  pay,  gloves,  three-and-six ;  cab,  there 
and  back,  four  shillings;  silk  stockings  every  now  and 
then,  say  a  shilling  a  time:  I  will  not  pay  to  hear  JMiss 
Rudge  screech  such  disgusting  twaddle  as  the  above.  If 
I  want  to  see  dancing,  there  is  Taglioni  for  my  money; 
or  across  the  water,  ]Mrs.  Serle  and  her  forty  pupils;  or 
at  Covent  Garden,  ^Madame  Vedy,  beautiful  as  a  houri, 
dark -eyed  and  agile  as  a  gazelle.  I  can  see  all  these  in 
comfort,  and  they  dance  a  great  deal  better  than  IMiss 
Blogg  and  Captain  Haggerty,  the  great  red-whiskered 
monster  who  always  wears  nankeens  because  he  thinks 
his  legs  are  fine.  If  I  want  conversation,  what  Jias  IMiss 
Flock  to  say  to  me,  forsooth,  between  the  figures  of  a 
cursed  quadrille  that  we  are  all  gravely  dancing?  By 
heavens,  what  an  agony  it  is!  Look  at  the  he-dancers, 
they  seem  oppressed  with  dreadful  care.  Look  at  the 
cavalier  seul!  if  the  operation  lasted  long  the  man's  hair 
would  turn  white, — he  would  go  mad!  And  is  it  for  this 
that  men  and  women  assemble  in  multitudes,  for  this 
sorry  pastime? 

No!  dance  as  you  will,  Miss  Smith,  and  swim  through 
the  quadrille  like  a  swan,  or  flutter  through  the  gallop 
like  a  sylphide,  and  have  the  most  elegant  fresh  toilettes, 
the  most  brilliantly  polished  white  shoulders,  the  bland- 
est eyes,  the  reddest,  simperingest  mouth,  the  whitest 
neck,  the— in  fact,  I  say,  be  as  charming  as  you  will, 
that  is  not  the  place  in  which,  if  you  are  worth  anything, 
you  are  most  charming.     You  are  beautiful;  vou  are 


604    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

very  much  dccolletee;  your  eyes  are  always  glancing 
down  at  a  pretty  pearl  necklace,  round  a  pearly  neck,  or 
on  a  fresh  fragrant  bouquet,  stuck — fiddlestick!  What 
is  it  that  the  men  admire  in  you? — the  animal,  miss, — 
the  white,  plump,  external  Smith,  which  men  with  their 
eye-glasses,  standing  at  various  parts  of  the  room,  are 
scanning  pertly  and  curiously,  and  of  which  they  are 
speaking  brutally.  A  pretty  admiration,  truly!  But  is 
it  possible  that  these  men  can  admire  anything  else  in 
you  who  have  so  much  that  is  really  admirable  ?  Crack- 
nell,  in  the  course  of  the  waltz,  has  just  time  to  pant  into 
your  ear,  "Were  you  at  Ascot  Races?"  Kidwinter, 
who  dances  two  sets  of  quadrilles  with  j'-ou,  whispers  to 
you,  "Do  you  pwefer  thtwawbewy  ithe  aw  wathbewy 
ithe? "  and  asks  the  name  of  "  that  gweat  enawmuth  fat 
woman  in  wed  thatin  and  bird  of  paw^adithe?"  to  which 
you  reply,  "Law,  sir,  it's  mamma!"  The  rest  of  the 
evening  passes  away  in  conversation  similarly  edifying. 
What  can  any  of  the  men  admire  in  j^ou,  you  little  silly 
creature,  but  the  animal  ?  There  is  your  mother,  now,  in 
red  and  a  bird  of  paradise,  as  Kidwinter  says.  She  has 
a  large  fan,  which  she  flaps  to  and  fro  across  a  broad 
chest;  and  has  one  eye  directed  to  her  Amelia,  dancing 
with  Kidwinter  before  mentioned;  another  watching 
Jane,  who  is  dancing  vis-a-vis  with  Major  Cutts;  and  a 
thii'd  complacently  cast  upon  Edward,  who  is  figuring 
with  Miss  Binx  in  the  other  quadrille.  How  the  dear 
fellow  has  grown,  to  be  sure;  and  how  like  his  papa  at 
his  age — heigho!  There  is  mamma,  the  best  woman 
brcatliing;  but  fat,  and  even  enormous,  as  has  been  said 
of  lier.  Does  anybody  gaze  on  Jicr?  And  yet  she  was 
once  as  slim  and  as  fair  as  you,  O  simple  Amelia! 
Does  anybody  care  for  her?     Yes,  one.     Your  father 


MEN  AND  COATS  605 

cares  for  her ;  Smith  cares  for  her ;  and  in  his  eyes  she 
is  still  the  finest  woman  of  the  room ;  and  he  remembers 
when  he  danced  down  seven-and-f  ort}^  couples  of  a  coun- 
try-dance with  her,  two  years  before  you  were  born  or 
thought  of.  But  it  was  all  chance  that  INIiss  Hopkins 
turned  out  to  be  the  excellent  creature  she  was.  Smith 
did  not  know  any  more  than  that  she  was  gay,  plump, 
good-looking,  and  had  five  thousand  pounds.  Hit  or 
miss,  he  took  her,  and  has  had  assuredly  no  cause  to  com- 
plain; but  she  might  have  been  a  Borgia  or  Joan  of 
Naples,  and  have  had  the  same  smiling  looks  and  red 
cheeks  and  five  thousand  pounds,  which  won  his  heart 
in  the  year  1814. 

The  system  of  evening  parties,  then,  is  a  false  and 
absurd  one.  Ladies  may  frequent  them  professionally 
with  an  eye  to  a  husband,  but  a  man  is  an  ass  who  takes 
a  wife  out  of  such  assemblies,  having  no  other  means  of 
judging  of  the  object  of  his  choice.  You  are  not  the 
same  person  in  your  white  crape  and  satin  slip  as  you  are 
in  your  morning  dress.  A  man  is  not  the  same  in  his 
tight  coat  and  feverish  glazed  pumps,  and  stiff  white 
waistcoat,  as  he  is  in  his  green  double-breasted  frock,  his 
old  black  ditto,  or  his  woollen  jacket.  And  a  man  is 
doubly  an  ass  who  is  in  the  habit  of  frequenting  evening 
parties,  unless  he  is  forced  thither  in  search  of  a  lady  to 
whom  he  is  attached,  or  unless  he  is  compelled  to  go  by 
his  wife.  A  man  who  loves  dancing  may  be  set  down 
to  be  an  ass;  and  the  fashion  is  greatly  going  out  with 
the  increasing  good  sense  of  the  age.  Do  not  say  that 
he  who  lives  at  home,  or  frequents  clubs  in  lieu  of  balls, 
is  a  brute,  and  has  not  a  proper  respect  for  the  female 
sex;  on  the  contrary,  he  may  respect  it  most  sincerely. 
He  feels  that  a  woman  appears  to  most  advantage,  not 


606    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

among  those  whom  she  cannot  care  about,  but  among 
those  whom  she  loves.  He  thinks  her  beautiful  when  she 
is  at  home  making  tea  for  her  old  father.  He  believes 
her  to  be  charming  when  she  is  singing  a  simple  song  at 
her  piano,  but  not  when  she  is  screeching  at  an  evening 
party.  He  thinks  by  far  the  most  valuable  part  of  her 
is  her  heart;  and  a  kind  simple  heart,  my  dears,  shines 
in  conversation  better  than  the  best  of  wdt.  He  admires 
her  best  in  her  intercourse  with  her  family  and  her 
friends,  and  detests  the  miserable  twaddling  slipslop  that 
he  is  obliged  to  hear  from  and  utter  to  her  in  the  course 
of  a  ball;  and  avoids  and  despises  such  meetings. 

He  keeps  his  evening  coat,  then,  for  dinners.  And  if 
this  friendty  address  to  all  the  mothers  who  read  this 
miscellany  may  somewhat  be  acted  upon  by  them;  if 
heads  of  families,  instead  of  spending  hundreds  upon 
chalking  floors,  and  Gunter,  and  cold  suppers,  and 
Weippert's  band,  will  determine  upon  giving  a  series  of 
plain,  neat,  nice  dinners,  of  not  too  many  courses,  but 
well  cooked,  or  not  too  many  whines,  but  good  of  their 
sort,  and  according  to  the  giver's  degree,  they  will  see 
that  the  young  men  will  come  to  them  fast  enough ;  that 
the}'  will  marry  their  daughters  quite  as  fast,  without 
injuring  their  health,  and  that  they  will  make  a  saving 
at  the  year's  end.  I  say  that  young  men,  young  women, 
and  heads  of  families  should  bless  me  for  pointing  out 
tliis  obvious  plan  to  them,  so  natural,  so  hearty,  so  hos- 
pitable, so  different  to  the  present  artificial  mode. 

A  grand  ball  in  a  palace  is  splendid,  generous,  and 
noble, — a  sort  of  procession  in  which  people  may  figure 
properly.  A  family  dance  is  a  pretty  and  pleasant 
amusement;  and  (especially  after  dinner)  it  does  the 
philosopher's  heart  good  to  look  upon  merry  young  peo- 


MEX  AND  COATS  607 

pie  who  know  each  other,  and  are  happy,  natural,  and 
familiar.  But  a  Baker  Street  hop  is  a  base  invention, 
and  as  such  let  it  be  denounced  and  avoided. 

A  dressing-gown  has  great  merits,  certainly,  but  it  is 
dangerous.  A  man  who  wears  it  of  mornings  generally 
takes  the  liberty  of  going  without  a  neckcloth,  or  of  not 
shaving,  and  is  no  better  than  a  driveller.  Sometimes, 
to  be  sure,  it  is  necessary,  in  self-defence,  not  to  shave, 
as  a  precaution  against  yourself,  that  is  to  say;  and  I 
know  no  better  means  of  ensuring  a  man's  remaining  at 
home  than  neglecting  the  use  of  the  lather  and  razor  for 
a  week,  and  encouraging  a  crop  of  bristles.  When  I 
wrote  my  tragedy,  I  shaved  off  for  the  last  two  acts  my 
left  eyebrow,  and  never  stirred  out  of  doors  until  it  had 
grown  to  be  a  great  deal  thicker  than  its  right-hand 
neighbour.  But  this  was  an  extreme  precaution,  and 
unless  a  man  has  very  strong  reasons  indeed  for  stopping 
at  home,  and  a  very  violent  propensity  to  gadding,  his 
best  plan  is  to  shave  every  morning  neatly,  to  put  on  his 
regular  coat,  and  go  regularly  to  work,  and  to  avoid  a 
dressing-gown  as  the  father  of  all  evil.  Painters  are  the 
only  persons  who  can  decently  appear  in  dressing-gowns ; 
but  these  are  none  of  your  easy  morning-gowns;  they 
are  commonly  of  splendid  stuff,  and  put  on  by  the  artist 
in  order  to  render  himself  remarkable  and  splendid  in  the 
ej^es  of  his  sitter.  Your  loose-wadded  German  schlaf- 
rock,  imported  of  late  years  into  our  country,  is  the 
laziest,  filthiest  invention;  and  I  always  augur  as  ill  of 
a  man  whom  I  see  appearing  at  breakfast  in  one,  as  of  a 
woman  who  comes  downstairs  in  curl-papers. 

By  the  way,  in  the  third  act  of  "  Macbeth,"  Mr.  Mac- 
ready  makes  his  appearance  in  the  courtyard  of  Glamis 
Castle  in  an  affair  of  brocade  that  has  always  struck  me 


G08    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

as  absurd  and  un-Macbethlike.  Mac  in  a  dressing-gown 
(I  mean  'Beth,  not  'Ready),— Mac  in  list  slippers,— 
Mac  in  a  cotton  nightcap,  with  a  tassel  bobbing  up  and 
down,— I  say  the  thought  is  unworthy,  and  am  sure  the 
worthy  thane  would  have  come  out,  if  suddenly  called 
from  bed,  by  any  circumstance,  however  painful,  in  a 
good  stout  jacket.  It  is  a  more  manly,  simple,  and  ma- 
jestic wear  than  the  lazy  dressing-gown;  it  more  becomes 
a  man  of  Macbeth's  mountainous  habits;  it  leaves  his 
legs  quite  free,  to  run  whithersoever  he  pleases, — 
whether  to  the  stables,  to  look  at  the  animals,— to  the 
farm,  to  see  the  pig  that  has  been  slaughtered  that  morn- 
ing,— to  the  garden,  to  examine  whether  that  scoundrel 
of  a  John  Hoskins  has  dug  up  the  potato-bed,— to  the 
nursery,  to  have  a  romp  with  the  little  Macbeths  that  are 
spluttering  and  quarrelling  over  their  porridge, — or 
whither  you  will.  A  man  in  a  jacket  is  fit  company  for 
anybody ;  there  is  no  shame  about  it  as  about  being  seen 
in  a  changed  coat;  it  is  simple,  steady,  and  straight- 
forward. It  is,  as  I  have  stated,  all  over  pockets,  which 
contain  everything  you  want :  in  one,  your  buttons,  ham- 
mer, small  nails,  thread,  twine,  and  cloth-strips  for  the 
trees  on  the  south  wall;  in  another,  your  dog-whip  and 
whistle,  your  knife,  cigar-case,  gingerbread  for  the  chil- 
dren, paper  of  Epsom  salts  for  John  Hoskin's  mother, 
who  is  mortal  ])ad,— and  so  on:  there  is  no  end  to  the 
pockets,  and  to  the  things  you  put  in  them.  Walk  about 
in  your  jacket,  and  meet  what  person  you  will,  you  as- 
sume at  once  an  independent  air;  and,  thrusting  your 
hands  into  the  receptacle  that  flaps  over  each  hip,  look 
the  visitor  in  the  face,  and  talk  to  the  ladies  on  a  footing 
of  perfect  equality.  Whereas,  look  at  the  sneaking  way 
in  which  a  man  caught  in  a  dressing-gown,  in  loose  bag- 


MEN  AND  COATS  609 

ging  trousers  most  likely  ( for  the  man  who  has  a  dress- 
ing-gown, has,  two  to  one,  no  braces),  and  in  shuffling 
slipj^ers, — see  how  he  whisks  his  dressing-gown  over  his 
legs,  and  looks  ashamed  and  uneasy.  His  lanky  hair 
hangs  over  his  blowsy,  fat,  shining,  unhealthy  face ;  his 
bristly  dumpling-shaped  double-chin  peers  over  a  flaccid 
shirt-collar ;  the  sleeves  of  his  gown  are  in  rags,  and  you 
see  underneath  a  pair  of  black  wristbands,  and  the  rim 
of  a  dingy  flannel  waistcoat. 

A  man  who  is  not  strictly  neat  in  his  person  is  not  an 
honest  man.  I  shall  not  enter  into  this  very  ticklish  sub- 
ject of  personal  purification  and  neatness,  because  this 
essay  will  be  read  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  ladies  as 
well  as  men ;  and  for  the  former  I  would  wish  to  provide 
nothing  but  pleasure.  ]Men  may  listen  to  stern  truths; 
but  for  ladies  one  should  only  speak  verities  that  are 
sparkling,  rosy,  brisk,  and  agreeable.  A  man  who 
wears  a  dressing-gown  is  not  neat  in  his  person;  his 
moral  character  takes  invariably  some  of  the  slatternli- 
ness and  looseness  of  his  costume ;  he  becomes  enervated, 
lazy,  incapable  of  great  actions;  a  man  in  a  jacket  is 
a  man.  All  great  men  wore  jackets.  Walter  Scott 
wore  a  jacket,  as  everybody  knows;  Byron  wore  a  jacket 
(not  that  I  count  a  man  who  turns  down  his  collars  for 
much)  ;  I  have  a  picture  of  Napoleon  in  a  jacket  at  Saint 
Helena;  Thomas  Carlyle  wears  a  jacket;  Lord  John 
Russell  always  mounts  a  jacket  on  arriving  at  the  Colo- 
nial Office ;  and  if  I  have  a  single  fault  to  find  with  that 
popular  writer,  the  author  of — never  mind  what,  you 
know  his  name,  as  well  as  I, — it  is  that  he  is  in  the  habit 
of  composing  his  works  in  a  large-flowered  damask 
dressing-gown,  and  morocco  slippers;  whereas  in  a 
jacket  he  would  write  you  off*  something,  not  so  flowery, 


610    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

if  you  jDlease,  but  of  honest  texture, — something,  not  so 
long,  but  terse,  modest,  and  comfortable, — no  great, 
long,  strealing  tails  of  periods, — no  staring  peonies  and 
hollyhocks  of  illustrations, — no  flaring  cords  and  tassels 
of  episodes, — no  great,  dirty,  wadded  sleeves  of  senti- 
ment, ragged  at  the  elbows  and  cuffs,  and  mopping  up 
everything  that  comes  in  their  way, — cigar-ashes,  ink, 
candle-wax,  cold  brandy  and  water,  coffee,  or  whatever 
aids  to  the  brain  he  may  employ  as  a  literary  man;  not 
to  mention  the  quantity  of  toothpowder,  whisker-dye, 
soapsuds,  and  pomatum  that  the  same  garment  receives 
in  the  course  of  the  toilets  at  which  it  assists.  Let  all 
literary  men,  then,  get  jackets.  I  prefer  them  without 
tails;  but  do  not  let  this  interfere  with  another  man's 
pleasure :  he  may  have  tails  if  he  likes,  and  I  for  one  will 
never  say  him  nay. 

Like  all  things,  however,  jackets  are  subject  to  abuse; 
and  the  pertness  and  conceit  of  those  jackets  cannot  be 
sufficiently  reprehended  which  one  sees  on  the  backs  of 
men  at  watering-places,  with  a  telescope  poking  out  of 
one  pocket,  and  a  yellow  bandanna  flaunting  from  the 
other.  Nothing  is  more  contemptible  than  Tims  in  a 
jacket,  with  a  blue  bird's-eye  neck-handkerchief  tied 
sailor-fashion,  puffing  smoke  like  a  steamer,  with  his 
great  broad  orbicular  stern  shining  in  the  sun.  I  always 
long  to  give  the  wretch  a  smart  smack  upon  that  part 
where  his  coat-tails  ought  to  be,  and  advise  him  to  get 
into  a  more  decent  costume.  There  is  an  age  and  a 
figure  for  jackets;  those  who  are  of  a  certain  build 
should  not  wear  them  in  public.  Witness  fat  officers  of 
the  dragoon-guards  that  one  has  seen  bumping  up  and 
down  the  Steyne,  at  Brighton,  on  their  great  chargers, 
with  a  laced  and  embroidered  coat,  a  cartridge-box,  or 


MEN  AND  COATS  611 

whatever  you  call  it,  of  the  size  of  a  twopenny  loaf, 
placed  on  the  small  of  their  backs, — if  their  backs  may 
be  said  to  have  a  small,  — and  two  little  twinkling  abor- 
tions of  tails  pointing  downwards  to  the  enormity  jolt- 
ing in  the  saddle.  Officers  should  be  occasionally 
measured,  and  after  passing  a  certain  width  should  be 
drafted  into  other  regiments,  or  allowed — nay,  ordered 
— to  wear  frock-coats. 

The  French  tailors  make  frock-coats  very  well,  but 
the  people  who  wear  them  have  the  disgusting  habit  of 
wearing  stays,  than  which  nothing  can  be  more  unbe- 
coming the  dignity  of  man.  Look  what  a  w^aist  the 
Apollo  has,  not  above  four  inches  less  in  the  girth  than 
the  chest  is.  Look,  ladies,  at  the  waist  of  the  Venus,  and 
pray, — pray  do  not  pinch  in  your  dear  little  ribs  in  that 
odious  and  unseemly  way.  In  a  young  man  a  slim  waist 
is  very  well;  and  if  he  looks  like  the  Eddystone  light- 
house, it  is  as  nature  intended  him  to  look.  A  man  of 
certain  age  may  be  built  like  a  tower,  stalwart  and 
straight.  Then  a  man's  middle  may  expand  from  the 
pure  cylindrical  to  the  barrel  shape;  well,  let  him  be 
content.  Nothing  is  so  horrid  as  a  fat  man  with  a  band ; 
an  hour-glass  is  a  most  mean  and  ungracious  figure. 
Daniel  Lambert  is  ungracious,  but  not  mean.  One 
meets  with  some  men  who  look  in  their  frock-coats  per- 
fectly sordid,  sneaking,  and  ungentlemanlike,  who  if 
you  see  them  dressed  for  an  evening  have  a  slim,  easy, 
almost  fashionable,  appearance.  Set  these  persons 
down  as  fellows  of  poor  spirit  and  milksops.  Stiff  white 
ties  and  waistcoats,  prim  straight  tails,  and  a  gold  chain 
will  give  any  man  of  moderate  lankiness  an  air  of  facti- 
tious gentility;  but  if  you  want  to  understand  the  indi- 
vidual, look  at  him  in  the  daytime ;  see  him  walking  with 


G12    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

his  hat  on.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  the  build  and  wear- 
ing of  hats,  a  great  deal  more  than  at  first  meets  the  eye. 
I  know  a  man  who  in  a  particular  hat  looked  so  extraor- 
dinarily like  a  man  of  property,  that  no  tradesman  on 
earth  could  refuse  to  give  him  credit.  It  was  one  of 
Andre's,  and  cost  a  guinea  and  a  half  ready  money; 
but  the  person  in  question  was  frightened  at  the  enor- 
mous charge,  and  afterwards  purchased  beavers  in  the 
City  at  the  cost  of  seventeen-and-sixpence.  And  what 
was  the  consequence?  He  fell  off  in  public  estimation, 
and  very  soon  after  he  came  out  in  his  City  hat  it  began 
to  be  whispered  abroad  that  he  was  a  ruined  man. 

A  blue  coat  is,  after  all,  the  best !  but  a  gentleman  of 
my  acquaintance  has  made  his  fortune  by  an  Oxford 
mixture,  of  all  colours  in  the  world,  with  a  pair  of  white 
buckskin  gloves.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  just  got  off  his 
horse,  and  as  if  he  had  three  thousand  a  year  in  the  coun- 
try. There  is  a  kind  of  proud  humility  in  an  Oxford 
mixture.  Velvet  collars,  and  all  such  gimcracks,  had 
best  be  avoided  by  sober  people.  This  paper  is  not  writ- 
ten for  drivelling  dandies,  but  for  honest  men.  There  is 
a  great  deal  of  philosophy  and  forethought  in  Sir  Rob- 
ert Peel's  dress ;  he  does  not  wear  those  white  waistcoats 
for  nothing.  I  say  that  O'Connell's  costume  is  likewise 
that  of  a  profound  rhetorician,  slouching  and  careless 
as  it  seems.  Lord  Melbourne's  air  of  reckless,  good-hu- 
moured, don't-care-a-damn-ativeness  is  not  obtained 
without  an  effort.  Look  at  the  Duke  as  he  passes  along 
in  that  stern  little  straight  frock  and  plaid  breeches; 
look  at  liim,  and  off  with  your  hat !  How  much  is  there 
in  that  little  grey  coat  of  Napoleon's!  A  spice  of  clap- 
trap and  dandyism,  no  doubt;  but  we  must  remember 
the  country  which  he  had  to  govern.    I  never  see  a  pic- 


MEX  AND  COATS  613 

ture  of  George  III.  in  his  old  stout  Windsor  uniform 
without  feehng  a  respect;  or  of  George  IV.,  breeches 
and  silk  stockings,  a  wig,  a  sham  smile,  a  f rogged  frock- 
coat  and  a  fur  collar,  without  that  proj^er  degree  of 
reverence  which  such  a  costume  should  inspire.  The  coat 
is  the  expression  of  the  man, —  olV^Ttsp  cp6XXcov,  &c. ;  and 
as  the  peach-tree  throws  out  peach-leaves,  the  pear-tree 
pear  ditto,  as  old  George  appeared  invested  in  the  sober 
old  garment  of  blue  and  red,  so  did  young  George  in 
oiled  wigs,  fur  collars,  stays,  and  braided  surtouts,  ac- 
cording to  his  nature. 

*^  4t  ^  ^ 

'i*  •1*  #1*  *I» 

Enough, — enough;  and  may  these  thoughts,  arising 
in  the  writer's  mind  from  the  possession  of  a  new  coat, 
which  circumstance  caused  him  to  think  not  only  of  new 
coats  but  of  old  ones,  and  of  coats  neither  old  nor  new, — 
and  not  of  coats  merely,  but  of  men, — may  these 
thoughts  so  inspired  answer  the  purpose  for  which  they 
have  been  set  down  on  paper,  and  which  is  not  a  silly 
wish  to  instruct  mankind, — no,  no;  but  an  honest  desire 
to  pay  a  deserving  tradesman  whose  confidence  sup- 
plied the  garment  in  question. 

PENTONVILI.E :  April  25,  1841. 

{Fr user's  Magazine,  August  184*1.) 


GREENWICH-WHITEBAIT 

I  WAS  recently  talking  in  a  very  touching  and  po- 
etical strain  about  the  above  delicate  fish  to  my 
friend  Foozle  and  some  others  at  the  Club,  and  expa- 
tiating upon  the  excellence  of  the  dinner  which  our  little 
friend  Guttlebury  had  given  us;  when  Foozle,  looking 
round  about  him  with  an  air  of  triumph  and  immense 
wisdom,  said — 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  WagstafF,  I'm  a  plain  man,  and 
despise  all  your  gormandising  and  kickshaws.  I  don't 
know  the  difference  between  one  of  your  absurd  made- 
dishes  and  another — give  me  a  plain  cut  of  mutton  or 
beef.    I'm  a  plain  Englishman,  I  am,  and  no  glutton." 

Foozle,  I  say,  thought  this  speech  a  terrible  set-down 
for  me — and  indeed  acted  up  to  his  principles — you  may 
see  him  any  day  at  six  sitting  down  before  a  great  reek- 
ing joint  of  meat;  his  eyes  quivering,  his  face  red,  and 
he  cutting  great  smoking  red  collops  out  of  the  beef  be- 
fore him,  which  he  devours  with  corresponding  quanti- 
ties of  cabbage  and  potatoes,  and  the  other  gratis  luxu- 
ries of  the  club-table. 

What  I  complain  of  is,  not  that  the  man  should  enjoy 
his  great  meal  of  steaming  beef;  let  him  be  happy  over 
that  as  much  as  the  beef  he  is  devouring  was  in  life 
happy  over  oil-cakes  or  mangel-wurzel:  but  I  hate  the 
fellow's  brutal  self-complacency,  and  his  scorn  of  other 
people  who  have  different  tastes  from  his.    A  man  who 

614 


GREENWICH-WHITEBAIT  615 

brags  regarding  himself,  that  whatever  he  swallows  is 
the  same  to  him,  and  that  his  coarse  palate  recognises  no 
difference  between  venison  and  turtle,  pudding  or  mut- 
ton-broth, as  his  indifferent  jaws  close  over  them,  brags 
about  a  personal  defect— the  wretch— and  not  about  a 
virtue.  It  is  like  a  man  boasting  that  he  has  no  ear  for 
music,  or  no  eye  for  colour,  or  that  his  nose  cannot  scent 
the  difference  between  a  rose  and  a  cabbage— I  say,  as 
a  general  rule,  set  that  man  down  as  a  conceited  fellow 
who  swaggers  about  not  caring  for  his  dinner. 

Why  shouldn't  we  care  about  it?  Was  eating  not 
made  to  be  a  pleasure  to  us?  Yes,  I  say,  a  daily  plea- 
sure :  a  sweet  solamen :  a  pleasure  familiar,  yet  ever  new, 
the  same  and  yet  how  different !  It  is  one  of  the  causes 
of  domesticity :  the  neat  dinner  makes  the  husband 
pleased,  the  housewife  happy,  the  children  consequently 
are  well  brought  up  and  love  their  papa  and  mamma. 
A  good  dinner  is  the  centre  of  the  circle  of  the  social 
sympathies— it  warms  acquaintanceship  into  friendship 
— it  maintains  that  friendship  comfortably  unimpaired: 
enemies  meet  over  it  and  are  reconciled.  How  many  of 
you,  dear  friends,  has  that  late  bottle  of  claret  warmed 
into  affectionate  forgiveness,  tender  recollections  of  old 
times,  and  ardent  glowing  anticipations  of  new!  The 
brain  is  a  tremendous  secret.  I  believe  some  chemist  will 
arise  anon,  who  will  know  how  to  doctor  the  brain  as 
they  do  the  body  now,  as  Liebig  doctors  the  ground. 
They  will  apply  certain  medicines,  and  produce  crops 
of  certain  qualities  that  are  lying  dormant  now  for  want 
of  intellectual  guano.  But  this  is  a  subject  for  future 
speculation — a  parenthesis  growing  out  of  another 
parenthesis.  What  I  would  urge  especially  here  is  a 
point  which  must  be  familiar  with  every  person  accus- 


CIG    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

tomed  to  eat  good  dinners— viz.  the  noble  and  friendly 
qualities  that  they  elicit.  How  is  it  we  cut  such  jokes 
over  them?  How  is  it  we  become  so  remarkably  friendly? 
How  is  it  that  some  of  us,  inspired  by  a  good  dinner, 
have  sudden  gusts  of  genius  unknown  in  the  quiet  un- 
festive  state?  Some  men  make  speeches,  some  shake 
their  neighbour  by  the  hand,  and  invite  him  or  them- 
selves to  dine — some  sing  prodigiously — my  friend,  Sala- 
din,  for  instance,  goes  home,  he  says,  with  the  most  beau- 
tiful harmonies  ringing  in  his  ears;  and  I,  for  my  part, 
will  take  any  given  tune,  and  make  variations  upon  it 
for  any  given  period  of  hours,  greatly,  no  doubt,  to  the 
delight  of  all  hearers.  These  are  only  temporary  in- 
spirations given  us  by  the  jolly  genius,  but  are  they  to 
be  despised  on  that  account?  No.  Good  dinners  have 
been  the  greatest  vehicles  of  benevolence  since  man  be- 
gan to  eat. 

A  taste  for  good  living,  then,  is  praiseworthy  in  mod- 
eration— like  all  the  other  qualities  and  endowments  of 
man.  If  a  man  were  to  neglect  his  family  or  his  busi- 
ness on  account  of  his  love  for  the  fiddle  or  the  fine  arts 
— he  would  commit  just  the  crime  that  the  dinner-sen- 
sualist is  guilty  of:  but  to  enjoy  wisely  is  a  maxim  of 
which  no  man  need  be  ashamed.  But  if  you  cannot  eat 
a  dinner  of  herbs  as  well  as  a  stalled  ox,  then  you  are  an 
unfortunate  man — your  love  for  good  dinners  has 
passed  the  wholesome  boundary,  and  degenerated  into 
gluttony. 

Oh,  shall  I  ever  forget  the  sight  of  the  only  City  din- 
ner I  ever  attended  in  my  life !  at  the  hall  of  the  Right 
Worshipful  Company  of  Chimney-sweepers— it  was  in 
May,  and  a  remarkably  late  pea-season.  The  hall  was 
decorated  with  banners   and   escutcheons   of  deceased 


GREENWICH-WHITEBAIT  617 

chummies — martial  music  resounded  from  the  balconies 
as  the  Master  of  the  Company  and  the  great  ones 
marched  in.  We  sat  down,  grace  was  said,  the  tureen- 
covers  removed,  and  instantly  a  silence  in  the  hall — 
a  breathless  silence — and  then  a  great  gurgle! 
grwlwlwlw  it  sounded  like.  The  worshipful  Company 
were  sucking  in  the  turtle !  Then  came  the  venison,  and 
with  it  were  two  hundred  quarts  of  peas,  at  five-and- 
twenty  shillings  a  quart — oh,  my  heart  sank  within  me, 
as  we  devoured  the  green  ones!  as  the  old  waddling, 
trembling,  winking  citizens  held  out  their  plates  quiver- 
ing with  anxiety,  and,  said  Mr.  Jones,  "A  little  bit  of 
the  f-f-fat,  another  spoonful  of  the  p-p-pe-as" — and 
they  swallowed  them  down,  the  prematurely  born  chil- 
dren of  the  spring — and  there  were  thousands  in  Lon- 
don that  day  without  bread. 

This  is  growing  serious— and  is  a  long  grace  before 
whitebait  to  be  sure — but  at  a  whitebait  dinner,  haven't 
you  remarked  that  you  take  a  number  of  dishes  first? 
In  the  first  place,  water-souchy,  soochy,  or  soujy — 
flounder-souchy  is  incomparably,  exquisitelj^  the  best — 
perch  is  muddy,  bony,  and  tough;  compared  to  it,  slips 
are  coarse;  and  salmon — perhaps  salmon  is  next  to  the 
flounder.  You  hear  many  people  exclaim  against 
flounder-souchy — I  dined  with  Jorrocks,  Sangsue,  the 
Professor,  and  one  or  two  more,  onl}'^  the  other  day,  and 
they  all  voted  it  tasteless.  Tasteless!  It  has  an  almost 
angelic  delicacy  of  flavour:  it  is  as  fresh  as  the  recollec- 
tions of  childhood — it  wants  a  Correggio's  pencil  to  de- 
scribe it  with  sufficient  tenderness. 

"If  a  flounder  had  two  hacks/'  Saladin  said  at  the 
"  Star  and  Garter  "  the  other  day,  "  it  would  be  divine! " 


G18    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

Foolish  man,  whither  will  your  wild  desires  carry  you? 
As  he  is,  a  flounder  is  a  perfect  being.  And  the  best 
reply  to  those  people  who  talk  about  its  tastelessness,  is 
to  say  "Yes,"  and  draw  over  the  tureen  to  yourself, 
and  never  leave  it  while  a  single  slice  of  brown  bread  re- 
mains beside  it,  or  a  single  silver-breasted  fishlet  floats 
in  the  yellow  2)arsley-flavoured  wave. 

About  eels,  salmon,  lobsters,  either  au  gratin  or  in  cut- 
lets, and  about  the  variety  of  sauces — Genevese  sauce, 
Indian  sauce  (a  strong  but  agreeable  compound),  &c., 
I  don't  think  it  is  necessary  to  speak.  The  slimy  eel  is 
found  elsewhere  than  in  the  stream  of  Thames  (I  have 
tasted  him  charmingly  matelotted  with  mushrooms  and 
onions,  at  the  "  Marronniers "  at  Passy),  the  lusty 
salmon  flaps  in  other  waters — by  the  fair  tree-clad  banks 
of  Lismore — by  the  hospitable  margin  of  Ballynahinch 
— by  the  beauteous  shores  of  Wye,  and  on  the  sandy  flats 
of  Scheveningen,  I  have  eaten  and  loved  him.  I  do  not 
generally  eat  him  at  Greenwich.  Not  that  he  is  not 
good.  But  he  is  not  good  in  such  a  place.  It  is  like  Mrs. 
Siddons  dancing  a  hornpipe,  or  a  chapter  of  Burke  in  a 
novel— the  salmon  is  too  vast  for  Greenwich. 

I  would  say  the  same,  and  more,  regarding  turtle. 
It  has  no  business  in  such  a  feast  as  that  fresh  and 
simple  one  provided  at  the  "  Trafalgar "  or  the  "  Old 
Ship."  It  is  indecorous  somehow  to  serve  it  in  that 
company.  A  fine  large  lively  turtle,  and  a  poor  little 
whitebait  by  his  side!  Ah,  it  is  wrong  to  place  them  by 
each  other. 

At  last  we  come  to  the  bait— the  twelve  dishes  of  pre- 
paratory fish  are  removed,  the  Indian-sauced  salmon  has 
been  attacked  in  spite  of  our  prohibition,  the  stewed  eels 
have   l)een   mauled,    and    the    flounder-soup    tureen    is 


GREENWICH-WHITEBAIT  619 

empty.    All  those  receptacles  of  pleasure  are  removed — 
eyes  turned  eagerly  to  the  door,  and  enter — 

Mr.  Derbyshire  (with  a  silver  dish  of  wliitebait). 

John  (brown  bread  and  butter) . 

Samuel  (lemons  and  caj^enne). 

Frederick  (a  dish  of  whitebait). 

Gustavus  (brown  bread  and  butter). 

Adolphus  (whitebait). 

A  waiter  with  a  napkin,  which  he  flaps  about  the 
room  in  an  easy  degage  manner. 
"  There's  plenty  more  to  follow,  sir,"  saj'-s  INIr,  D., 
whisking  oiF  the  cover.  Frederick  and  Adolphus  pass 
rapidly  round  with  their  dishes;  John  and  Gustavus 
place  their  refreshments  on  the  table,  and  Samuel  obse- 
quiously insinuates  the  condiments  under  his  charge. 

All!  he  must  have  had  a  fine  mind  who  first  invented 
brown  bread  and  butter  with  whitebait !  That  man  was 
a  kind,  modest,  gentle  benefactor  to  his  kind.  We  don't 
recognise  sufficiently  the  merits  of  those  men  who  leave 
us  such  quiet  benefactions.  A  statue  ought  to  be  put  up 
to  the  philosopher  who  joined  together  this  charming 
couple.  Who  was  it?  Perhaps  it  was  done  by  the  as- 
tronomer at  Greenwich,  who  observed  it  when  seeking 
for  some  other  discovery.  If  it  were  the  astronomer — 
why,  the  next  time  we  go  to  Greenwich  we  will  go  into 
the  Park  and  ascend  the  hill,  and  pay  our  respects  to  the 
Observatory. 

That,  by  the  way,  is  another  peculiarity  about  Green- 
wich. People  leave  town,  and  say  they  will  walk  in  the 
Park  before  dinner.  But  we  never  do.  We  may  sup- 
pose there  is  a  Park  from  seeing  trees;  but  we  have 
never  entered  it.  We  walk  wistfully  up  and  down  on 
the  terrace  before  the  Hospital,  looking  at  the  clock  a 


G20    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

great  many  times;  at  the  brown  old  seamen  basking  in 
the  sun;  at  the  craft  on  the  river;  at  the  nursery -maids 
mayhap,  and  the  gambols  of  the  shrill-voiced  Jacks- 
ashore  on  the  beach.  But  the  truth  is,  one's  thinking  of 
something  else  all  the  time.  Of  the  bait.  Remark  how 
silent  fellows  are  on  steamboats  going  down  to  Green- 
wich. They  won't  acknowledge  it,  but  they  are  thinking 
of  what  I  tell  you. 

Well,  when  the  whitebait  does  come,  what  is  it  after 
all?  Come  now.  Tell  us,  my  dear  sir,  your  real  senti- 
ments about  this  fish,  this  little  little  fish  about  which  we 
all  make  such  a  noise !  There  it  lies.  Lemon  it,  pepper 
it:  pop  it  into  your  mouth— and  what  then? — a  crisp 
crunch,  and  it  is  gone.  Does  it  realise  your  expectations 
— is  it  better  than  anything  you  ever  tasted?  Is  it  as 
good  as  raspberry  open  tarts  used  to  be  at  school? 
Come,  upon  your  honour  and  conscience  now,  is  it  better 
than  a  fresh  dish  of  tittlebacks  or  gudgeons? 

O  fool,  to  pry  with  too  curious  eye  into  these  secrets! 
O  blunderer,  to  wish  to  dash  down  a  fair  image  because 
it  may  be  of  plaster!  O  dull  philosopher,  not  to  know 
that  pursuit  is  pleasure,  and  possession  worthless  without 
it!  I,  for  my  part,  never  will,  as  long  as  I  live,  put  to 
myself  that  question  about  whitebait.  Whitebait  is  a 
butterfly  of  the  waters— and  as  the  animal  mentioned  by 
I^ord  Byron  invites  the  young  pursuer  near,  and  leads 
him  through  thy  fields  Cashmere— as  it  carries  him  in  his 
chase  through  a  thousand  agreeable  paths  scented  with 
violets,  sparkling  with  sunshine,  with  beauty  to  feast  his 
eyes,  and  health  in  the  air— let  the  right-thinking  man 
be  content  with  the  pursuit,  nor  inquire  too  curiously 
about  the  object-  How  many  hunters  get  the  brush  of 
tlie  fox,  and  what,  when  gotten,  is  the  worth  of  that 
tawny  wisp  of  hair? 


GREENWICH-WHITEBAIT  621 

Whitebait,  then,  is  only  a  little  means  for  acquiring 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  Somehow,  it  is  always  allied 
with  sunshine:  it  is  always  accompanied  by  jolly  friends 
and  good-humour.  You  rush  after  that  little  fish,  and 
leave  the  cares  of  London  behind  you — the  row  and 
struggle,  the  foggy  darkness,  the  slippery  pavement 
where  every  man  jostles  you,  striding  on  his  way  preoc- 
cupied, with  care  written  on  his  brow.  Look  out  of  the 
window,  the  sky  is  tinted  with  a  thousand  glorious  hues 
— the  ships  pass  silent  over  the  blue  glittering  waters — 
there  is  no  object  within  sight  that  is  not  calm,  and 
happy,  and  beautiful.  Yes !  turn  your  head  a  little,  and 
there  lie  the  towers  of  London  in  the  dim  smoky  sunset. 
There  lie  Care,  Labour,  To-morrow.  Friends,  let  us 
have  another  glass  of  claret,  and  thank  our  luck  that  we 
have  still  to-day. 

On  thinking  over  the  various  whitebait  dinners  which 
have  fallen  to  our  lot  in  the  last  month — somehow  j^ou 
are  sure  to  find  the  remembrance  of  them  all  pleasant.  I 
have  seen  some  wretches  taking  whitebait  and  tecij  which 
has  always  inspired  me  with  a  sort  of  terror,  and  a  yearn- 
ing to  go  up  to  the  miserable  objects  so  employed,  and 
say,  "My  good  friend,  here  is  a  crown-piece;  have  a 
bottle  of  iced  punch,  or  a  tankard  of  delicious  cider-cup 
— but  not  tea,  dear  sir;  no,  no,  not  tea;  you  can  get  that 
at  home — there's  no  exhilaration  in  Congo.  It  was  not 
made  to  be  drunk  on  holidays.  Those  people  are  unwor- 
thy of  the  "  Ship  "—I  don't  wish  to  quarrel  with  the  en- 
joyments of  any  man;  but  fellows  who  take  tea  and 
whitebait  should  not  be  allowed  to  damp  the  festive  feel- 
ings of  persons  better  engaged.  They  should  be  con- 
signed to  the  smiling  damsels  whom  one  meets  on  the 
walk  to  Mr.  Derbyshire's,  who  issue  from  dingy  tene- 
ments no  bigger  than  houses  in  a  pantomime,  and  who. 


622    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

whatever  may  be  the  rank  of  the  individual,  persist  in 
saying,  "  Tea,  sir— I  can  accommodate  your  party— tea, 
sir, — srimps?" 

About  the  frequenters  of  Greenwich  and  the  various 
classes  of  ichthyophagi,  many  volumes  might  be  written. 
All  classes  of  English  Christians,  with  the  exception  of 
her  Majesty  and  Prince  Albert  (and  the  more  is  the  pity 
that  their  exalted  rank  deprives  them  of  an  amusement 
so  charming!)  frequent  the  hospitable  taverns — the  most 
celebrated  gormandiser  and  the  very  humble.  There  are 
the  annual  IVIinisterial  Saturnaha,  which,  whenever  I  am 
called  in  by  her  Majesty,  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in 
describing  in  these  pages,  and  in  which  the  lowest  be- 
comes the  highest  for  the  occasion,  and  Taper  and  Tad- 
pole take  just  as  high  a  rank  as  Lord  Eskdale  or  Lord 
]Monmouth.  There  are  the  private  banquets  in  which 
Lord  iSIonmouth  diverts  himself  with  his  friends  from 
the  little  French— but  this  subject  has  been  already 
touched  upon  at  much  length.  There  are  the  lawyers' 
dinners,  when  Sir  Frederick  or  Sir  William  is  advanced 
to  the  honour  of  the  bench  or  the  attorney-generalship, 
and  where  much  legal  pleasantry  is  elicited.  The  last 
time  I  dined  at  the  "  Ship,"  hearing  a  dreadful  Baccha- 
nalian noise  issuing  from  a  private  apartment,  I  was  in- 
formed, "Ifs  the  gentlemen  of  'Punch/  sir."  What 
would  I  not  have  given  to  be  present  at  such  an  assembly 
of  choice  spirits!  Even  missionary  societies  and  con- 
verters of  the  Quashimdoo  Indians  come  hither  for  a 
little  easy  harmless  pleasuring  after  their  labours,  and  no 
doubt  the  whitebait  slips  down  their  reverend  throats, 
and  is  relished  by  them  as  well  as  by  the  profane  crowd. 

Then,  in  the  coffee-room,  let  a  man  be  b}^  himself,  and 
he  is  never  lonely.     Every  table  tells  its  little  histor3^ 


GREENWICH-WHITEBAIT  623 

Yonder  sit  three  City  bucks,  with  all  the  elegant  graces 
of  the  Custom-house  and  the  Stock  Exchange. 

"  That's  a  good  glass  of  wine,"  says  Wiggins. 

"  Ropy,"  said  Figgins ;  "  I'll  put  you  in  a  pipe  of  that 
to  stand  you  in  three-and-twenty  a  dozen." 

Once,  in  my  presence,  I  heard  a  City  "'gent"  speak 
so  slightingly  of  a  glass  of  very  excellent  brown  sherry, 
that  the  landlord  was  moved  almost  to  tears,  and  made  a 
speech,  of  which  the  sorrow  was  only  equalled  by  the  in- 
dignation. 

Sporting  young  fellows  come  down  in  great  numbers, 
with  cutaway  coats  and  riding-whips,  which  must  be  very 
useful  on  the  water.  They  discourse  learnedly  about 
Leander  and  Running  Rein,  and  say,  "  I'll  bet  j^ou  three 
to  two  of  that." 

Likewise  pink-faced  lads  from  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge. Those  from  the  former  University  wear  lav- 
ender-coloured gloves,  and  drink  much  less  wine  than 
their  jolly  comrades  from  the  banks  of  Cam.  It  would 
be  a  breach  of  confidence  to  report  their  conversation: 
but  I  lately  heard  some  very  interesting  anecdotes  about 
the  ^Master  of  Trinity,  and  one  Bumpkins,  a  gyp  there. 

Of  course  there  are  foreigners.  I  have  remarked 
many  "  JNIosaic  Arabs  "  w^ho  dress  and  drink  remarkably 
smartly;  honest  pudding-faced  Germans,  who  sit  senti- 
mentally over  their  punch ;  and  chattering  little  French- 
men with  stays,  and  whiskers,  and  canes,  and  little  lac- 
quered boots.  These  worthies  drink  ale,  for  the  most 
part,  saying,  "  Je  ne  bois  que  I'ale  moi,"  or  "  Que  la  biere 
est  bonne  en  Angleterre."  "  Et  que  le  vin  est  mauvais," 
shrieks  out  the  pigmy  addressed,  and  so  thej'  club  their 
sixpence,  and  remain  faithful  to  the  malt-and-hoppish- 
liquor.    It  may  be  remarked  that  ladies  and  Frenchmen 


624    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

are  not  favourites  with  inn-waiters,  coach-guards,  cab- 
men, and  such  officials,  doubtless  for  reasons  entirely 
mercenary. 

I  could  continue  for  many  more  pages,  but  the  even- 
ing grey  is  tinging  the  river;  the  packet-boat  bells  are 
ringing;  the  sails  of  the  ships  look  greyer  and  more 
ghostlike  as  they  sweep  silently  by.  It  is  time  to  be 
thinking  of  returning,  and  so  let  us  call  for  the  bill,  and 
finish  with  a  moral.  IMy  dear  sir,  it  is  this.  The  weather 
is  beautiful.  The  whitebait  singularly  fine  this  season. 
You  are  sure  to  be  happy  if  you  go  to  Greenwich.  Go 
then;  and,  above  all,  take  your  amiable  lady  with 

YOU. 

Ah!  if  but  ten  readers  will  but  follow  this  advice, 
Lancelot  WagstafF  has  not  written  in  vain,  and  has  made 
ten  charming  women  happy ! 

{Colburn's  New  Monthly  Magazine,  July  1844.) 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK 

IF  you  will  take  a  leaf  out  of  my  sketch-book,  you  are 
welcome.  It  is  only  a  scrap,  but  I  have  nothing  bet- 
ter to  give.  When  the  fishing-boats  come  in  at  a  water- 
ing-place, haven't  you  remarked  that  though  these  may 
be  choking  with  great  fish,  you  can  only  get  a  few  her- 
rings or  a  whiting  or  two?  The  big  fish  are  all  bespoken 
in  London.  As  it  is  with  fish,  so  it  is  with  authors,  let  us 
hope.  Some  Mr.  Charles,  of  Paternoster  Row,  some 
Mr.  Grove,  of  Cornhill  (or  elsewhere),  has  agreed  for 
your  turbots  and  your  salmon,  your  soles  and  your  lob- 
sters. Take  one  of  my  little  fish, — any  leaf  you  like  out 
of  the  little  book, — a  battered  little  book:  through  what 
a  number  of  countries,  to  be  sure,  it  has  travelled  in  this 
pocket ! 

The  sketches  are  but  poor  performances,  say  you.  I 
don't  say  no;  and  value  them  no  higher  than  you  do, 
except  as  recollections  of  the  past.  The  little  scrawl 
helps  to  fetch  back  the  scene  which  was  present  and  alive 
once,  and  is  gone  away  now,  and  dead.  The  past  re- 
surges  out  of  its  grave:  comes  up — a  sad-eyed  ghost 
sometimes — and  gives,  a  wan  ghost-like  look  of  recog- 
nition, ere  it  pops  down  under  cover  again.  Here's  the 
Thames,  an  old  graveyard,  an  old  church,  and  some  old 
chestnuts  standing  behind  it.  Ah!  it  was  a  very  cheery 
place,  that  old  graveyard ;  but  what  a  dismal,  cut-throat, 
cracked-windowed,    disreputable    residence    was    that 

625 


626    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

"  charming  villa  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,"  which  led 
me  on  the  day's  excursion!  Why,  the  "capacious  sta- 
bling "  was  a  ruinous  wooden  old  barn,  the  garden  was  a 
mangy  potato  patch,  overlooked  by  the  territories  of  a 
neighbouring  washerwoman.  The  housekeeper  owned 
that  the  water  was  constantly  in  the  cellars  and  ground- 
floor  rooms  in  winter.  Had  I  gone  to  live  in  that  place, 
I  should  have  perished  like  a  flower  in  spring,  or  a  young 
gazelle,  let  us  say,  with  dark  blue  eye.  I  had  spent  a  day 
and  hired  a  fly  at  ever  so  much  charges,  misled  by  an  un- 
veracious  auctioneer,  against  whom  I  have  no  remedy  for 
publishing  that  abominable  work  of  fiction  which  led  me 
to  make  a  journey,  lose  a  day,  and  waste  a  guinea. 

What  is  the  next  picture  in  the  little  show-book?  It  is 
a  scene  at  Calais.  The  sketch  is  entitled  "  The  Little 
Merchant."  He  was  a  dear  pretty  little  rosy-cheeked 
merchant,  four  years  old  maybe.  He  had  a  little  scarlet 
kepi;  a  little  military  frock-coat;  a  little  pair  of  mili- 
tary red  trousers  and  boots,  which  did  not  near  touch  the 
ground  from  the  chair  on  which  he  sat  sentinel.  He  was 
a  little  crockery  merchant,  and  the  wares  over  which  he 
was  keeping  guard,  sitting  surrounded  by  walls  and  piles 
of  them  as  in  a  little  castle,  were— well,  I  never  saw  such 
a  queer  little  crockery  merchant. 

Him  and  his  little  chair,  boots,  kej^^^  crockery,  you  can 
see  in  the  sketch, — but  I  see,  nay,  hear,  a  great  deal  more. 
At  the  end  of  the  quiet  little  old,  old  street,  which  has  re- 
tired out  of  the  world's  business  as  it  were,  being  quite 
too  aged,  feeble,  and  musty  to  take  any  part  in  life,— 
there  is  a  great  braying  and  bellowing  of  serpents  and 
bassoons,  a  nasal  chant  of  clerical  voices,  and  a  pattering 
of  multitudinous  feet.  We  run  towards  the  market.  It 
is  a  Church  fete  day.     Banners  painted  and  gilt  with 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK     627 

images  of  saints  are  flaming  in  the  sun.  Candles  are  held 
aloft,  feebly  twinkling  in  the  noontide  shine.  A  great 
procession  of  children  with  w  hite  veils,  white  shoes,  white 
roses,  passes,  and  the  whole  town  is  standing  with  its  hat 
oiF  to  see  the  religious  show.  When  I  look  at  my  little 
merchant,  then,  I  not  only  see  him,  but  that  procession 
passing  over  the  place ;  and  as  I  see  those  people  in  their 
surplices,  I  can  almost  see  Eustache  de  Saint  Pierre  and 
his  comrades  walking  in  their  shirts  to  present  themselves 
to  Edward  and  Philippa  of  blessed  memory.  And  they 
stand  before  the  wrathful  monarch, — poor  fellows, 
meekly  shuddering  in  their  chemises,  with  ropes  round 
their  necks;  and  good  Philippa  kneels  before  the  royal 
conqueror,  and  says,  "  ]\Iy  King,  my  Edward,  my  beau 
Sire!  Give  these  citizens  their  lives  for  our  Lady's 
gramercy  and  the  sake  of  thy  Philippa!"  And  the 
Plantagenet  growls,  and  scowls,  and  softens,  and  he  lets 
those  burgesses  go.  This  novel  and  remarkable  histori- 
cal incident  passes  through  my  mind  as  I  see  the  clergy- 
men and  clergy -boys  pass  in  their  little  short  white  sur- 
plices on  a  mid-August  day.  The  balconies  are  full,  the 
bells  are  all  in  a  j  angle,  and  the  blue  noonday  sky  quivers 
overhead. 

I  suppose  other  pen  and  pencil  sketchers  have  the  same 
feeling.  The  sketch  brings  back,  not  only  the  scene,  but 
the  circumstances  under  which  the  scene  was  viewed.  In 
taking  up  an  old  book,  for  instance,  written  in  former 
days  by  your  humble  servant,  he  comes  upon  passages 
which  are  outwardly  lively  and  facetious,  but  inspire 
their  writer  with  the  most  dismal  melancholy.  I  lose  all 
cognisance  of  the  text  sometimes,  which  is  hustled  and 
elbowed  out  of  sight  by  the  crowd  of  thoughts  which 
throng  forward,  and  which  were  alive  and  active  at  the 


628    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

time  that  text  was  born.  Ah,  my  good  sir!  a  man's 
books  mayn't  be  interesting  (and  I  could  mention  other 
authors'  works  besides  this  one's  which  set  me  to  sleep), 
but  if  you  knew  all  a  writer's  thoughts,  how  interesting 
his  book  would  be !  Why,  a  grocer's  day-book  might  be 
a  wonderful  history,  if  alongside  of  the  entries  of  cheese, 
pickles,  and  figs,  you  could  read  the  circumstances  of  the 
writer's  life,  and  the  griefs,  hopes,  joys,  which  caused 
the  heart  to  beat,  while  the  hand  was  writing  and 
the  ink  flowing  fresh.  Ah  memory!  ah  the  past,  ah 
the  sad  sad  past!  Look  under  this  waistcoat,  my 
dear  madam.  There.  Over  the  liver.  Don't  be  fright- 
ened. You  can't  see  it.  But  there,  at  this  moment,  I 
assure  you,  there  is  an  enormous  vulture  gnawing,  gnaw- 
ing. 

Turn  over  the  page.  You  can't  deny  that  this  is  a  nice 
little  sketch  of  a  quaint  old  town,  with  city  towers,  and 
an  embattled  town  gate,  with  a  hundred  peaked  gables, 
and  rickety  balconies,  and  gardens  sweeping  down  to  the 
river  wall,  with  its  toppling  ancient  summer-houses 
under  which  the  river  rushes ;  the  rushing  river,  the  talk- 
ing river,  that  murmurs  all  day,  and  brawls  all  night  over 
the  stones.  At  early  morning  and  evening,  under  this 
terrace  which  you  see  in  the  sketch — it  is  the  terrace  of 
the  Steinbock  or  Capricorn  Hotel — the  cows  come;  and 
there,  under  the  walnut-trees  before  the  tannery,  is  a 
fountain  and  pump  where  the  maids  come  in  the  after- 
noon and  for  some  hours  make  a  clatter  as  noisy  as  the 
river.  Mountains  gird  it  around,  clad  in  dark  green  firs, 
with  purple  shadows  gushing  over  their  sides,  and  glori- 
ous changes  and  gradations  of  sunrise  and  setting.  A 
more  picturesque,  quaint,  kind,  quiet  little  town  than  this 
of  Coire  in  the  Grisons,  I  have  seldom  seen;  or  a  more 
comfortable  little  inn  than  this  of  the  Steinbock  or  Capri- 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK  629 

corn,  on  the  terrace  of  which  we  are  standing.  But 
quick,  let  us  turn  the  page.  To  look  at  it  makes  one  hor- 
ribly melancholy.  As  we  are  on  the  inn-terrace  one  of 
our  party  lies  ill  in  the  hotel  within.  When  will  that 
doctor  come?  Can  we  trust  to  a  Swiss  doctor  in  a  re- 
mote little  town  away  at  the  confines  of  the  rail- 
way world?  He  is  a  good,  sensible,  complacent  doc- 
tor, laus  Deo, — the  people  of  the  hotel  as  kind,  as  atten- 
tive, as  gentle,  as  eager  to  oblige.  But  oh,  the  gloom  of 
those  sunshiny  days;  the  sickening  languor  and  doubt 
which  fill  the  heart  as  the  hand  is  making  yonder  sketch, 
and  I  think  of  the  invalid  suffering  within ! 

Quick,  turn  the  page.  And  what  is  here?  This  pic- 
ture, ladies  and  gentlemen,  represents  a  steamer  on  the 
Alabama  river,  plying  (or  wJiich  plied)  between  Mont- 
gomery and  Mobile.  See,  there  is  a  black  nurse  with  a 
cotton  handkerchief  round  her  head,  dandling  and  toss- 
ing a  white  baby.  Look  in  at  the  open  door  of  that  cabin, 
or  "  state  room  "  as  they  call  the  crib  yonder.  A  mother 
is  leaning  by  a  bedplace ;  and  see,  kicking  up  in  the  air, 
are  a  little  pair  of  white  fat  legs,  over  which  that  happy 
young  mother  is  bending  in  such  happy  tender  con- 
templation. That  gentleman  with  a  forked  beard 
and  a  slouched  hat,  whose  legs  are  sprawling  here 
and  there,  and  who  is  stabbing  his  mouth  and  teeth 
with  his  penknife,  is  quite  good-natured,  though  he 
looks  so  fierce.  A  little  time  ago,  as  I  was  read- 
ing in  the  cabin,  having  one  book  in  my  hand  and 
another  at  my  elbow,  he  affably  took  the  book  at  my 
elbow,  read  in  it  a  little,  and  put  it  down  by  my  side 
again.  He  meant  no  harm.  I  say  he  is  quite  good- 
natured  and  kind.  His  manners  are  not  those  of  May- 
fair,  but  is  not  Alabama  a  river  as  well  as  Thames?  I 
wish  that  other  little  gentleman  were  in  the  cabin  who 


630    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

asked  me  to  liquor  twice  or  thrice  in  the  course  of  the 
morning,  but  whose  hospitahty  I  decHned,  preferring  not 
to  be  made  merry  by  wine  or  strong  waters  before  dinner. 
After  dinner,  in  return  for  his  hospitahty,  I  asked  him  if 
he  would  drink?  "No,  sir,  I  have  dined,"  he  answered 
with  very  great  dignity,  and  a  tone  of  reproof.  Very 
good.    Manners  differ.    I  have  not  a  word  to  say. 

Well,  my  little  Mentor  is  not  in  my  sketch,  but  he  is 
in  my  mind  as  I  look  at  it:  and  this  sketch,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  is  especially  interesting  and  valuable,  because 
the  steamer  blew  up  on  the  very  next  journey:  blew  up, 
I  give  you  my  honour, — burst  her  boilers  close  by  my 
state  room,  so  that  I  might,  had  I  but  waited  for  a  week, 
have  witnessed  a  celebrated  institution  of  the  country, 
and  had  the  full  benefit  of  the  boiling. 

I  turn  a  page,  and  who  are  these  little  men  who  appear 
on  it  ?  Jim  and  Sady  are  two  j^oung  friends  of  mine  at 
Savannah  in  Georgia.  I  made  Sady's  acquaintance  on  a 
first  visit  to  America, — a  pretty  little  brown  boy  with 
beautiful  bright  eyes,— and  it  appears  that  I  presented 
him  with  a  quarter  of  a  dollar,  which  princely  gift  he 
remembered  years  afterwards,  for  never  were  eyes  more 
bright  and  kind  than  the  little  man's  when  he  saw  me,  and 
I  dined  with  his  kind  masters  on  my  second  visit.  Jim 
at  my  first  visit  had  been  a  little  toddling  tadpole  of  a 
creature,  but  during  the  interval  of  the  two  journeys  had 
developed  into  the  full-blown  beauty  which  you  see.  On 
the  day  after  my  arrival  these  young  persons  paid  me  a 
visit,  and  here  is  a  humble  portraiture  of  them,  and  an 
accurate  account  of  a  conversation  which  took  place  be- 
tween us,  as  taken  down  on  the  spot  by  the  elder  of  the 
interlocutors. 

Jim  is  five  years  old:  Sady  is  seben:  only  Jim  is  a 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK   631 


great  deal  fatter.  Jim  and  Sady  have  had  sausage  and 
hominy  for  breakfast.  One  sausage,  Jim's,  was  the  big- 
gest. Jim  can  sing,  but  dechnes  on  being  pressed,  and 
looks  at  Sady  and  grins.  They  both  work  in  de  garden. 
Jim  has  been  licked  by  Master,  but  Sady  never.  These 
are  their  best  clothes.  They  go  to  church  in  these  clothes. 
Heard  a  fine  sermon  yesterday,  but  don't  know  what  it 
was  about.  Never  heard  of  England,  never  heard  of 
America.  Like  orangees  best.  Don't  know  any  old  wo- 
man who  sells  orangees.  {A  pecuniary  transaction  takes 
place.)  Will  give  that  quarter-dollar  to  Pa.  That  was 
Pa  who  waited  at  dinner.  Are  hungry,  but  dinner  not 
cooked  yet.  Jim  all  the  while  is  revolving  on  his  axis, 
and  when  begged  to  stand  still  turns  round  in  a  fitful 
manner. 

[Exeunt  Jim  and  Sady  with  a  cake  apiece  which  the 
housekeeper  gives  them,  Jim  tumbles  down- 
stairs. 


632    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

In  his  little  red  jacket,  his  little— his  little?— his  im- 
mense red  trousers. 


On  my  word  the  fair  proportions  of  Jim  are  not  ex- 
aggerated,—such  a  queer  little  laughing  blackamoor- 
kin  I  have  never  seen.  Seen?  I  see  him  nov^^,  and  Sady, 
and  a  half-dozen  more  of  the  good  people,  creeping  on 
silent  bare  feet  to  the  drawing-room  door  when  the  music 
begins,  and  listening  with  all  their  ears,  with  all  their 
eyes.  Good-night,  kind,  warm-hearted  little  Sady  and 
Jim !  ]May  peace  soon  be  within  your  doors,  and  plenty 
within  your  walls  1  I  have  had  so  much  kindness  there, 
that  I  grieve  to  think  of  friends  in  arms,  and  brothers  in 
anger. 

{The  Victoria  Regia,  edited  hy  Adelaide  A.  Procter,  1861.) 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE 

To  the  Editor  of  the  "  Morning  Chronicled 

SIR,— In  a  leading  article  of  your  journal  of  Thurs- 
da3%  the  3rd  instant,  you  commented  upon  literary 
pensions  and  the  status  of  literary  men  in  this  country, 
and  illustrated  your  arguments  by  extracts  from  the 
story  of  "  Pendennis,"  at  present  in  course  of  publication. 
You  have  received  my  writings  with  so  much  kindness, 
that,  if  you  have  occasion  to  disapprove  of  them  or  the 
author,  I  can't  question  your  right  to  blame  me,  or  doubt 
for  a  moment  the  friendliness  and  honesty  of  my  critic ; 
and  however  I  might  dispute  the  justice  of  your  verdict 
in  my  case,  I  had  proposed  to  submit  to  it  in  silence, 
being  indeed  very  quiet  in  my  conscience  with  regard  to 
the  charge  made  against  me. 

But  another  newspaper  of  high  character  and  repute 
takes  occasion  to  question  the  principles  advocated  in 
your  article  of  Thursday,  arguing  in  favour  of  pensions 
for  literary  persons  as  you  argued  against  them ;  and  the 
only  point  upon  which  the  Examiner  and  the  Chronicle 
appear  to  agree,  unluckily  regards  myself,  who  am  of- 
fered up  to  general  reprehension  in  two  leading  articles 
by  the  two  writers :  by  the  latter  for  "  fostering  a  bane- 
ful prejudice"  against  literary  men;  by  the  former  for 
"  stooping  to  flatter  "  this  prejudice  in  the  public  mind, 
and  "condescending  to  caricature  (as  is  too  often  my 
habit)  my  literary  fellow-labourers,  in  order  to  pay 
court  to  the  non-literarv  class." 

633 


634    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

The  charges  of  the  Eocaminer  against  a  man  who  has 
never,  to  his  knowledge,  been  ashamed  of  his  profession, 
or  (except  for  its  dulness)  of  any  single  hne  from  his 
pen,  grave  as  they  are,  are,  I  hope,  not  proven.  "  To 
stoop  to  flatter  "  any  class  is  a  novel  accusation  brought 
against  my  writings;  and  as  for  my  scheme  "to  pay 
court  to  the  non-literary  class  by  disparaging  my  literary 
fellow-labourers,"  it  is  a  design  which  would  exhibit  a 
degree  not  only  of  baseness  but  of  folly  upon  my  part 
of  which,  I  trust,  I  am  not  capable.  The  editor  of  the 
Eocaminer  may  perhaps  occasionally  write,  like  other 
authors,  in  a  hurry,  and  not  be  aware  of  the  conclusions 
to  which  some  of  his  sentences  may  lead.  If  I  stoop  to 
flatter  anybody's  prejudices  for  some  interested  motives 
of  my  own,  I  am  no  more  nor  less  than  a  rogue  and  a 
cheat;  which  deductions  from  the  Examiner  s  premisses 
I  will  not  stoop  to  contradict,  because  the  premisses 
themselves  are  simply  absurd. 

I  deny  that  the  considerable  body  of  our  countrymen 
described  by  the  Examiner  as  the  "  non-literary  class  " 
has  the  least  gratification  in  witnessing  the  degradation 
or  disparagement  of  literary  men.  Why  accuse  the 
"non-literary  class"  of  being  so  ungrateful?  If  the 
writings  of  an  author  give  the  reader  pleasure  or  profit, 
surel}^  the  latter  will  have  a  favourable  opinion  of  the 
person  who  benefits  him.  What  intelligent  man,  of 
whatsoever  political  views,  would  not  receive  with  re- 
spect and  welcome  that  writer  of  the  Examiner  of  whom 
your  paper  once  said  that  "he  made  all  England  laugh 
and  tliiTik  "  ?  Who  would  deny  to  that  brilliant  wit,  that 
polislied  satirist,  his  just  tribute  of  respect  and  admira- 
tion? Hoes  any  man  who  has  written  a  book  worth  read- 
ing—any poet,  liistorian,  novelist,  man  of  science— lose 


THE  DIGXITY  OF  LITERATURE     635 

reputation  by  his  character  for  genius  or  for  learning? 
Does  he  not,  on  the  contrary,  get  friends,  sympathy,  ap- 
plause—money, perhaps?— all  good  and  pleasant  things 
in  themselves,  and  not  ungenerously  awarded  as  they  are 
honestly  won.  That  generous  faith  in  men  of  letters, 
that  kindly  regard  in  which  the  whole  reading  nation 
holds  them,  appear  to  me  to  be  so  clearlj^  shown  in  our 
country  every  day,  that  to  question  them  would  be  ab- 
surd, as,  permit  me  to  say  for  mj''  part,  it  would  be  un- 
grateful. What  is  it  that  fills  mechanics'  institutes  in 
the  great  provincial  towns  when  literary  men  are  invited 
to  attend  their  festivals  ?  Has  not  every  literary  man  of 
mark  his  friends  and  his  circle,  his  hundreds  or  his  tens 
of  thousands  of  readers?  And  has  not  everyone  had 
from  these  constant  and  aiFecting  testimonials  of  the  es- 
teem in  which  they  hold  him  ?  It  is  of  course  one  writer's 
lot,  from  the  nature  of  his  subject  or  of  his  genius,  to 
command  the  sympathies  or  awaken  the  curiosity  of 
many  more  readers  than  shall  choose  to  listen  to  another 
author;  but  surely  all  get  their  hearing.  The  literary 
profession  is  not  held  in  disrepute ;  nobody  wants  to  dis- 
parage it,  no  man  loses  his  social  rank,  whatever  it  may 
be,  by  practising  it.  On  the  contrary;  the  pen  gives  a 
place  in  the  world  to  men  who  had  none  before,  a  fair 
place,  fairly  achieved  by  their  genius,  as  any  other  de- 
gree of  eminence  is  by  any  other  kind  of  merit.  Literary 
men  need  not,  as  it  seems  to  me,  be  in  the  least  querulous 
about  their  position  any  more,  or  want  the  pity  of  any- 
body. The  money-prizes  which  the  chief  among  them 
get  are  not  so  high  as  those  which  fall  to  men  of  other 
calhngs— to  bishops,  or  to  judges,  or  to  opera-singers 
and  actors,  nor  have  they  received  stars  and  garters  as 
yet,  or  peerages  and  governorships  of  islands,  such  as 


636    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

fall  to  the  lot  of  military  officers.  The  rewards  of  the 
profession  are  not  to  be  measured  by  the  money  standard, 
for  one  man  may  spend  a  life  of  learning  and  labour 
on  a  book  which  does  not  pay  the  printer's  bill ;  and  an- 
other gets  a  little  fortune  by  a  few  light  volumes.  But 
putting  the  money  out  of  the  question,  I  believe  that  the 
social  estimation  of  the  man  of  letters  is  as  good  as  it 
deserves  to  be,  and  as  good  as  that  of  any  other  profes- 
sional man. 

With  respect  to  the  question  in  debate  between  you 
and  the  Examiner,  as  to  the  propriety  of  public  rewards 
and  honours  to  literary  men,  I  don't  see  why  men  of 
letters  should  not  cheerfully  coincide  with  Mr.  Exam- 
iner, in  accepting  all  the  honours,  places,  and  prizes 
which  they  can  get.  The  amount  of  such  as  will  be 
awarded  to  them  will  not,  we  may  be  pretty  sure,  im- 
poverish the  country  much;  and  if  it  is  the  custom  of 
the  State  to  reward  by  money,  or  titles  of  honour,  or 
stars  and  garters  of  any  sort,  individuals  who  do  the 
country  service ;  and  if  individuals  are  gratified  by  hav- 
ing Sir,  or  my  Lord,  appended  to  their  names,  or  stars 
and  ribbons  hooked  on  to  their  coats  and  waistcoats,  as 
men  most  undoubtedly  are,  and  as  their  wives,  families, 
and  relations  are — there  can  be  no  reason  why  men  of 
letters  should  not  have  the  chance,  as  well  as  men  of  the 
robe  or  the  sword;  or  why,  if  honour  and  money  are 
good  for  one  profession,  they  should  not  be  good  for 
another.  No  man  in  other  callings  thinks  himself  de- 
graded by  receiving  a  reward  from  his  Government ;  nor 
surely  need  the  literary  man  be  more  squeamish  about 
pensions,  and  ribbons,  and  titles,  than  the  ambassador, 
or  general,  or  judge.  Every  European  State  but  ours 
rewards  its  men  of  letters;  the  American  Government 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE     637 

gives  them  their  fuU  share  of  its  small  patronage;  and 
if  Americans,  why  not  Englishmen?  If  Pitt  Crawley 
is  disappointed  at  not  getting  a  ribbon  on  retiring  from 
his  diplomatic  post  at  Pumpernickel ;  if  General  O'Dowd 
is  pleased  to  be  called  Sir  Hector  O'Dowd,  K.C.B.,  and 
his  wife  at  being  denominated  my  Lady  O'Dowd — are 
hterary  men  to  be  the  only  persons  exempt  from  vanity, 
and  is  it  to  be  a  sin  in  them  to  covet  honour  ? 

And  now  with  regard  to  the  charge  against  myself  of 
fostering  baneful  prejudices  against  our  calling — to 
which  I  no  more  plead  guilty  than  I  should  think  Field- 
ing would  have  done,  if  he  had  been  accused  of  a  design 
to  bring  the  Church  into  contempt  by  describing  Parson 
Trulliber — permit  me  to  say,  that  before  you  deliver 
sentence  it  would  be  as  well  to  have  waited  to  hear  the 
whole  of  the  argument.  Who  knows  what  is  coming 
in  the  future  numbers  of  the  work  which  has  incurred 
your  displeasure  and  the  Examiner's,  and  whether  you, 
in  accusing  me  of  prejudice,  and  the  Examiner  (alas!) 
of  swindling  and  flattering  the  public,  have  not  been 
premature?  Time  and  the  hour  may  solve  this  mystery, 
for  which  the  candid  reader  is  referred  to  "  our  next." 

That  I  have  a  prejudice  against  running  into  debt, 
and  drunkenness,  and  disorderly  life,  and  against 
quackery  and  falsehood  in  my  profession,  I  own;  and 
that  I  like  to  have  a  laugh  at  those  pretenders  in  it  who 
write  confidential  news  about  fashion  and  politics  for 
provincial  gohemouches;  but  I  am  not  aware  of  feeling 
any  malice  in  describing  this  weakness,  or  of  doing  any- 
thing wrong  in  exposing  the  former  vices.  Have  they 
never  existed  amongst  literary  men  ?  Have  their  talents 
never  been  urged  as  a  plea  for  improvidence,  and  their 
very  faults  adduced  as  a  consequence  of  their  genius? 


638    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

The  only  moral  that  I,  as  a  writer,  wished  to  hint  in  the 
descriptions  against  which  you  protest  was,  that  it  was 
the  duty  of  a  literary  man,  as  well  as  any  other,  to  prac- 
tise regularity  and  sobriety,  to  love  his  family,  and  to 
pay  his  tradesmen.  Nor  is  the  picture  I  have  drawn  "  a 
caricature  which  I  condescend  to,"  any  more  than  it  is  a 
wilful  and  insidious  design  on  my  part  to  flatter  "  the 
non-literary  class."  If  it  be  a  caricature,  it  is  the  result 
of  a  natural  perversity  of  vision,  not  of  an  artful  desire 
to  mislead;  but  my  attempt  was  to  tell  the  truth,  and  I 
meant  to  tell  it  not  unkindly.  I  have  seen  the  book- 
seller whom  Bludyer  robbed  of  his  books ;  I  have  carried 
money,  and  from  a  noble  brother  man-of -letters,  to  some- 
one not  unlike  Shandon  in  prison,  and  have  watched  the 
beautiful  devotion  of  his  wife  in  that  place.  Why  are 
these  things  not  to  be  described,  if  they  illustrate,  as  they 
appear  to  me  to  do,  that  strange  and  awful  struggle  of 
good  and  wrong  which  takes  place  in  our  hearts  and  in 
the  world  ?  It  may  be  that  I  work  out  my  moral  ill,  or  it 
may  possibly  be  that  the  critic  of  the  Eocaminer  fails  in 
apprehension.  My  effort  as  an  artist  came  perfectly 
within  his  province  as  a  censor ;  but  when  Mr.  Examiner 
says  of  a  gentleman  that  he  is  "  stooping  to  flatter  the 
public  prejudice,"  which  public  prejudice  does  not  exist, 
I  submit  that  he  makes  a  charge  which  is  as  absurd  as  it 
is  unjust,  and  am  thankful  that  it  repels  itself. 

And  instead  of  accusing  the  public  of  persecuting  and 
disparaging  us  as  a  class,  it  seems  to  me  that  men  of 
letters  had  best  silently  assume  that  they  are  as  good  as 
any  other  gentlemen;  nor  raise  piteous  controversies 
upon  a  question  which  all  people  of  sense  must  take  as 
settled.  If  I  sit  at  your  table,  I  suppose  that  I  am  my 
neiglibour's  equal,  and  that  he  is  mine.     If  I  begin 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE     639 

straightway  with  a  protest  of  "  Sir,  I  am  a  Hterary  man, 
but  I  would  have  you  to  know  that  I  am  as  good  as  you," 
which  of  us  is  it  that  questions  the  dignity  of  the  hterary 
profession — my  neighbour  who  would  like  to  eat  his 
soup  in  quiet,  or  the  man  of  letters  who  commences  the 
argument?  And  I  hope  that  a  comic  writer,  because  he 
describes  one  author  as  improvident,  and  another  as  a 
parasite,  may  not  only  be  guiltless  of  a  desire  to  vilify 
his  profession,  but  may  really  have  its  honour  at  heart. 
If  there  are  no  spendthrifts  or  parasites  among  us,  the 
satire  becomes  unjust;  but  if  such  exist,  or  have  existed, 
they  are  as  good  subjects  for  comedy  as  men  of  other 
callings.  I  never  heard  that  the  Bar  felt  itself  aggrieved 
because  Punch  chose  to  describe  JNIr.  Dump's  notorious 
state  of  insolvency,  or  that  the  picture  of  Stiggins,  in 
"  Pickwick,"  was  intended  as  an  insult  to  all  Dissenters; 
or  that  all  the  attorneys  in  the  empire  were  indignant 
at  the  famous  history  of  the  firm  of  "  Quirk,  Gammon, 
and  Snap."  Are  we  to  be  passed  over  because  we  are 
faultless,  or  because  we  cannot  afford  to  be  laughed  at? 
And  if  every  character  in  a  story  is  to  represent  a  class, 
not  an  individual— if  every  bad  figure  is  to  have  its 
obliged  contrast  a  good  one,  and  a  balance  of  vice  and 
virtue  is  to  be  struck— novels,  I  think,  would  become 
impossible,  as  they  would  be  intolerably  stupid  and  un- 
natural ;  and  there  would  be  a  lamentable  end  of  writers 
and  readers  of  such  compositions.  Believe  me,  Sir,  to 
be  your  very  faithful  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

Reform  Club  :  Jan.  8. 

{Morning  Chronicle,  January  12,  1850.) 


MR.  THACKERAY  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

To  the  Editor  of  "  Fraser's  Magazine^ 

YOU  may  remember,  my  dear  Sir,  how  I  prognosti- 
cated a  warm  reception  for  your  Mr.  Michael 
Angelo  Titmarsh  in  New  York— how  I  advised  that  he 
should  come  by  a  Collins  rather  than  a  Cunard  liner — 
how  that  he  must  land  at  New  York  rather  than  at  Bos- 
ton—or, at  any  rate,  that  he  mustn't  dare  to  begin  lec- 
turing at  the  latter  city,  and  bring  "  cold  joints  "  to  the 
former  one.  In  the  last  particular  he  has  happily  fol- 
lowed my  suggestion,  and  has  opened  with  a  warm  suc- 
cess in  the  chief  city.  The  journals  have  been  full  of 
him.  On  the  19th  of  November,  he  commenced  his  lec- 
tures before  the  Mercantile  Library  Association  (young 
ardent  commercialists)  ,in  the  spacious  New  York  church 
belonging  to  the  flock  presided  over  by  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Chapin;  a  strong  row  of  ladies — the  cream  of  the 
capital— and  an  "unusual  number  of  the  distinguished 
literary  and  professional  celebrities."  The  critic  of  the 
New  York  Tribune  is  forward  to  commend  his  style  of 
delivery  as  "  that  of  a  well-bred  gentleman,  reading  with 
marked  force  and  propriety  to  a  large  circle  in  the  draw- 
ing-room." So  far,  excellent.  This  witness  is  a  gen- 
tleman of  the  press,  and  is  a  credit  to  his  order.  But 
there  are  some  otliers  who  have  whetted  the  ordinary 
American  appetite  of  inquisitiveness  with  astounding  in- 
telligence.   Sydney  Smith  excused  the  national  curiosity 

$40 


THACKERAY  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  641 

as  not  only  venial,  but  laudable.  In  1824,  he  wrote— 
"  Where  men  live  in  woods  and  forests,  as  is  the  case,  of 
course,  in  remote  American  settlements,  it  is  the  duty  of 
every  man  to  gratify  the  inhabitants  by  telling  them  his 
name,  place,  age,  office,  virtues,  crimes,  children,  fortune, 
and  remarks."  It  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise,  therefore, 
that  this  percontatorial  foible  has  grown  with  the  na- 
tional growth. 

You  cannot  help  perceiving  that  the  lion  in  America 
is  public  property  and  confiscate  to  the  common  weal. 
They  trim  the  creature's  nails,  they  cut  the  hair  off  his 
mane  and  tail  (which  is  distributed  or  sold  to  his  ad- 
mirers) ,  and  they  draw  his  teeth,  which  are  frequently 
preserved  with  much  the  same  care  as  you  keep  any 
memorable  grinder  whose  presence  has  been  agony  and 
departure  delight. 

Bear-leading  is  not  so  much  in  vogue  across  the  At- 
lantic as  at  your  home  in  England;  but  the  lion-leading 
is  infinitely  more  in  fashion. 

Some  learned  man  is  appointed  Androcles  to  the  new 
arrival.  One  of  the  familiars  of  the  press  is  despatched 
to  attend  the  latest  attraction,  and  by  this  reflecting 
medium  the  lion  is  perpetually  presented  to  the  popular 
gaze.  The  guest's  most  secret  self  is  exposed  by  his 
host.  Every  action— every  word— every  gesture  is  pre- 
served and  proclaimed— a  sigh— a  nod— a  groan— a 
sneeze— a  cough— or  a  wink— is  each  written  down  by 
this  recording  minister,  who  blots  out  nothing.  No 
tabula  rasa  with  him.  The  portrait  is  limned  with  the 
fidelity  of  Parrhasius,  and  filled  up  with  the  minuteness 
of  the  Daguerre  process  itself.  No  bloodhound  or  Bow- 
Street  officer  can  be  keener  or  more  exact  on  the  trail 
than  this  irresistible  and  unavoidable  spy.     'Tis  in  Aus- 


642    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

tria  they  calotype  criminals :  in  the  far  West  the  public 
press  prints  the  identity  of  each  notorious  visitor  to  its 
shores. 

In  turn,  Mr.  Dickens,  Lord  Carlisle,  Jenny  Lind,  and 
now  Mr.  Thackeray,  have  been  lionised  in  America. 

"  They  go  to  see,  themselves  a  greater  sight  than  all." 

In  providing  for  a  gaping  audience,  narrators  are 
disposed  rather  to  go  beyond  reality.  Your  famous  Ori- 
ental lecturer  at  the  British  and  Foreign  Institute  had 
a  wallet  of  personal  exj)erience,  from  which  Lemuel  Gul- 
liver might  have  helped  himself.  With  such  hyperbole 
one  or  two  of  "our  own  correspondents"  of  American 
journals  tell  JNIr.  Thackeray  more  about  his  habits  than 
he  himself  was  cognisant  of.  Specially  I  have  selected 
from  the  Sac}ie7n  and  Broadway  Delineator  (the  latter- 
named  newspaper  has  quite  a  fabulous  circulation)  a 
pleasant  history  of  certain  of  the  peculiarities  of  your 
great  humourist  at  which  I  believe  he  himself  must 
smile. 

]\Ir.  Thackeray's  person,  height,  breadth,  hair,  com- 
plexion, voice,  gesticulation,  and  manner  are,  with  a  fair 
enough  accuracy,  described. 

Anon,  these  recorders,  upon  which  we  play,  softly 
wliisper — 

"  One  of  h!s  most  singular  habits  is  that  of  making  rough 
sketches  for  caricatures  on  his  finger-nails.  The  phosphoretic 
ink  he  originally  used  has  destroyed  the  entire  nails,  so  his  fingers 
arc  now  tij)pod  with  horn,  on  which  he  draws  his  portraits.  The 
Duke  of  INIarlhoro'  (under  Queen  Anne),  General  O'Gahagan 
(under  Lord  Lake),  together  with  Ibrahim  Pasha  (at  the' Turk- 
ish Ambassador's),  were  thus  taken.     The  celebrated  engravings 


THACKERAY  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  643 

in  the  '  Paris  Sketch  Book,'  '  Esmond,'  &c.,  were  made  from  these 
sketches.  He  has  an  insatiable  passion  for  snuff,  which  he  carries 
loose  in  his  pockets.  At  a  ball  at  the  Duke  of  Northumberland's, 
he  set  a  whole  party  sneezing,  in  a  polka,  in  so  convulsive  a  man- 
ner that  they  were  obliged  to  break  up  in  confusion.  His  pockets 
are  all  lined  with  tea-lead,  after  a  fashion  introduced  by  the  late 
Lord  Dartmouth. 

"  Mr.  T.  has  a  passion  for  daguerreotypes,  of  which  he  has  a 
collection  of  many  thousands.  Most  of  these  he  took  unobserved 
from  the  outer  gallery  of  Saint  Paul's.  He  generally  carries  his 
apparatus  in  one  of  Sangster's  alpaca  umbrellas,  surmounted 
with  the  head  of  Doctor  Syntax.  (This  umbrella,  we  believe,  re- 
mained with  the  publishers  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  after  the  article 
on  the  London  Exhibitions,  in  which  it  was  alluded  to. )  He  has 
been  known  to  collar  a  beggar  boy  in  the  streets,  drag  him  off 
to  the  nearest  pastrycook's,  and  exercise  his  photographic  art 
without  ceremony.  In  London  he  had  a  tame  laughing  hyjena 
presented  to  him,  on  the  breaking  up  of  the  Tower  menagerie, 
which  followed  him  like  a  dog,  and  was  much  attached  to  his  mas- 
ter, though  totally  blind  from  confinement,  deaf,  and  going  on 
three  legs  and  a  wooden  one.  He  was  always  surrounded  by 
pets  and  domestic  animals  in  his  house ;  two  owls  live  in  the  ivy- 
tod  of  the  summer-house  in  the  garden.  His  back  sitting-room 
has  an  aviary.  Monkeys,  dogs,  parrots,  cats,  and  guinea-pigs 
swarm  in  the  chambers.  The  correspondent  of  the  Buffalo  Re- 
volver, who  stayed  three  weeks  with  Mr.  Thackeray  during  the 
Great  Exhibition,  gave  us  these  particulars. 

"  His  papers  on  the  '  Greater  Petty  Chaps  '  or  '  Garden  War- 
bler {Sylva  hortensis),''  'the  Fauvette,'  created  an  immense  sen- 
sation when  Madame  Otto  Goldschmidt  was  last  in  London.  The 
study  is  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  The  outside  is  richly  covered 
with  honeysuckle,  jasmine,  and  Virginian  creepers.  Here  Mr. 
T.  sits  in  perfect  solitude,  '  chewing  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter 
fancy.'  Being  an  early  riser,  he  is  generally  to  be  found  there 
in  the  morning,  whence  he  can  watch  the  birds.     His  daily  cos- 


GU    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

tume  is  a  hanging  chlamys,  or  frock-coat,  which  he  closely  but- 
tons, to  avoid  the  encumbrance  of  a  waistcoat.  Hence  the  multi- 
plicity of  his  coat-pockets,  whose  extreme  utihty  to  him  during 
his  lecture  has  been  remarked  elsewhere.  He  wears  no  braces,  but 
his  nether  garments  are  sustained  by  a  suspensory  belt  or  bandage 
of  hemp  round  his  loins.  Socks  or  stockings  he  despises  as  ef- 
feminate, and  has  been  heard  to  sigh  for  the  days  of  the  Solea 
or  oavSdXtov.  A  hair-shirt  close  to  the  skin  as  Dejanira's  robe, 
with  a  changeable  linen  front  of  the  finest  texture ;  a  mortifica- 
tion, or  penance,  according  to  his  cynical  contempt  and  yet  re- 
spect for  human  vanity,  is  a  part  of  his  ordinary  apparel.  A 
gibus  hat  and  a  pair  of  bluchers  complete  his  attire.  By  a  con- 
trivance borrowed  from  the  disguises  of  pantomimists,  he  un- 
dresses himself  in  the  twinkling  of  a  bedpost;  and  can  slip  into 
bed  while  an  ordinary  man  is  pulling  off  his  coat.  He  is  awaked 
from  his  sleep  (lying  always  on  his  back  in  a  sort  of  mesmeric 
trance)  by  a  black  servant  (Joe's  domestic  in  'Vanity  Fair'), 
who  enters  the  bedroom  at  four  o'clock  precisely  every  morning, 
winter  or  summer,  tears  down  the  bed-clothes,  and  literally  satu- 
rates his  master  with  a  can  of  cold  water  drawn  from  the  nearest 
spring.  As  he  has  no  whiskers,  he  never  needs  to  shave,  and  he 
is  used  to  clean  his  teeth  with  the  feather  end  of  the  quill  with 
which  he  writes  in  bed.  (In  this  free  and  enlightened  country  he 
will  find  he  need  not  waste  his  time  in  cleaning  his  teeth  at  all.) 
With  all  his  excessive  simplicity,  he  is  as  elaborate  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  his  dress  as  Count  d'Orsay  or  Mr.  Brummel.  His  toilet 
occupies  him  after  matin  studies  till  midday.  He  then  sits  down 
to  a  substantial '  bever,'  or  luncheon  of  '  tea,  coffee,  bread,  butter, 
salmon-shad,  liver,  black  puddings,  and  sausages.'  At  the  top 
of  this  he  deposits  two  glasses  of  ratafia  and  three-fourths  of  a 
glass  of  rum-shrub.  Immediately  after  the  meal  his  horses  are 
brought  to  the  door ;  he  starts  at  once  in  a  mad  gallop,  or  coolly 
commences  a  gentle  amble,  according  to  the  character  of  the 
work,  fast  or  slow,  that  he  is  engaged  upon. 

"  He  pays  no  visits  and,  being  a  solitudinarian,  frequents  not 


THACKERAY  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  645 

even  a  single  club  in  London.  He  dresses  punctiliously  for  dinner 
every  day.  He  is  but  a  sorry  eater,  and  avoids  all  vegetable  diet, 
as  he  thinks  it  dims  the  animal  spirits.  Only  when  engaged  on 
pathetic  subjects  does  he  make  a  hearty  meal;  for  the  body  ma- 
cerated by  long  fasting,  he  says,  cannot  unaided  contribute  the 
tears  he  would  shed  over  what  he  writes.  Wine  he  abhors,  as  a 
true  Mussulman.  Mr.  T.'s  favourite  drink  is  gin  and  toast-and- 
water,  or  cider  and  bitters,  cream  and  cayenne. 

*jto,  jfe  ^^  afc 

^v  ^^*  '^  ^^* 

"  In  religion  a  Parsee  (he  was  born  in  Calcutta),  in  morals  a 
Stagyrite,  in  philosophy  an  Epicurean ;  though  nothing  in  his 
conversation  or  manners  would  lead  one  to  surmise  that  he  be- 
longed to  either  or  any  of  these  sects.  In  politics  an  unflinching 
Tory ;  fond  of  the  Throne,  admiring  the  Court,  attached  to  the 
peerage,  proud  of  the  army  and  navy ;  a  thick  and  thin  upholder 
of  Church  and  State,  he  is  for  tithes  and  taxes  as  in  Pitt's  time. 
He  wears  hair  powdered  to  this  day,  from  his  entire  reliance  on 
the  wisdom  of  his  forefathers.  Besides  his  novels,  he  is  the  author 
of  the  *  Vestiges  of  Creation,'  the  '  Errors  of  Numismatics,' 
'  Junius's  Letters,'  and  '  Ivanhoe.'  The  sequel  to  this  last  he 
published  three  or  four  years  ago.  He  wrote  all  Louis  Napo- 
leon's works,  and  Madame  H.'s  exquisite  love  letters ;  and  whilst 
secretary  to  that  prince  in  confinement  at  Ham,  assisted  him  in 
his  escape,  by  knocking  down  the  sentry  with  a  ruler  with  which 
he  had  been  ruling  accounts.  Mr.  T.  is  very  fond  of  boxing,  and 
used  to  have  an  occasional  set-to  with  Ben  Caunt,  the  Tipton 
Slasher,  and  young  Sambo.  He  fences  admirably,  and  ran  the 
celebrated  Bertrand  through  the  lungs  twice,  at  an  assaut  d'armes 
in  Paris.  He  is  an  exquisite  dancer,  he  founded  Laurent's  Ca- 
sino (was  a  pupil  of  Old  Grimaldi,  surnamed  Iron  Legs),  and 
played  Harlequin  in  '  Mother  Goose '  pantomime  once,  when 
Ella,  the  regular  performer,  was  taken  ill  and  unable  to  appear. 

"  He  has  no  voice,  ear,  or  fancy  even,  for  music,  and  the  only 
instruments  he  cares  to  listen  to  are  the  Jew's-harp,  the  bagpipes, 
and  the  '  Indian  drum.' 


64G    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

"  He  is  disputatious  and  loquacious  to  a  degree  in  company ; 
and  at  a  dinner  at  the  Bishop  of  Oxford's,  the  discussion  with  Mr. 
Macaulay  respecting  the  death  of  Mausolus,  the  husband  of 
Zenobia,  occupied  the  disputants  for  thirteen  hours  ere  either 
rose  to  retire.  Mr.  Macaulay  was  found  exhausted  under  the 
table.  He  has  no  acquaintance  with  modern  languages,  and  his 
French,  which  he  freely  uses  throughout  his  writings,  is  furnished 
by  the  Parisian  governess  in  the  Baron  de  B.'s  establishment.  In 
the  classics  he  is  superior  to  either  Professor  Sedgwick  or  Blackie 
(vide  his  '  Colloquies  on  Strabo,'  and  the  '  Curtian  Earthquake  '). 
He  was  twice  senior  opt.  at  Magdalen  College,  and  three  times 
running  carried  off  Barnes's  prize  for  Greek  Theses  and  Can- 
tate,"    X.  T.  X, 

*^  ^  4^  ^ 

#^  *^  *i*  *t^ 

Happily  these  delicate  attentions  have  not  ruffled  Mr. 
Thackeray's  good  temper  and  genial  appreciation  of  the 
high  position  occupied  by  literary  men  in  the  United 
States.  Let  me  avow  that  this  position  not  only  reflects 
credit  on  the  country  which  awards  it,  but  helps  to  shed 
its  lustre  on  the  men  of  letters  who  become  the  guests 
of  its  hospitality.  Mr.  Thackeray's  last  lecture  of  the 
series,  on  the  7th  ult.,  gracefully  conceded  this  in  the  fol- 
lowing tribute: — 

"  In  England  it  was  my  custom,  after  the  delivery  of  these 
lectures,  to  point  such  a  moral  as  seemed  to  befit  the  country  I 
lived  in,  and  to  protest  against  an  outcry,  which  some  brother 
authors  of  mine  most  imprudently  and  unjustly  raise,  when  they 
say  that  our  profession  is  neglected  and  its  professors  held  in 
light  esteem.  Sf)eaking  in  this  country,  I  would  say  that  such 
a  complaint  could  not  only  not  be  advanced,  but  could  not  be 
even  understood  here,  where  your  men  of  letters  take  their  manly 
slijirc  in  public  life;  whence  Everett  goes  as  Minister  to  Wash- 
ington, and  Irving  and  Bancroft  to  represent  the  republic  in  the 


THACKERAY  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  647 

old  country.  And  if  to  English  authors  the  English  public  is, 
as  I  believe,  kind  and  just  in  the  main,  can  any  of  us  say,  will  any 
who  visit  your  country  not  proudly  and  gratefully  own,  with  what 
a  cordial  and  generous  greeting  you  receive  us  ?  I  look  round  on 
this  great  company.  I  think  of  my  gallant  young  patrons  of 
the  Mercantile  Library  Association,  as  whose  servant  I  appear 
before  you,  and  of  the  kind  hands  stretched  out  to  welcome  me 
by  men  famous  in  letters,  and  honoured  in  our  country  as  in  their 
own,  and  I  thank  you  and  them  for  a  most  kindly  greeting  and  a 
most  generous  hospitality.  At  home,  and  amongst  his  own  peo- 
ple, it  scarce  becomes  an  English  writer  to  speak  of  himself :  his 
public  estimation  must  depend  upon  his  works;  his  private  es- 
teem on  his  character  and  his  life.  But  here,  among  friends 
newly  found,  I  ask  leave  to  say  that  I  am  thankful ;  and  I  think 
with  a  grateful  heart  of  those  I  leave  behind  me  at  home,  who  will 
be  proud  of  the  welcome  you  hold  out  to  me,  and  will  benefit, 
please  God,  when  my  days  of  work  are  over,  by  the  kindness 
which  you  show  to  their  father." 

John  Small. 

(Eraser's  Magazine,  January  1853.) 


GOETHE  IN  HIS  OLD  AGE.* 

London:  April  28,  1855. 

DEAR  LEWES,— I  wish  I  had  more  to  tell  you  re- 
garding Weimar  and  Goethe.  Five-and-twenty 
years  ago,  at  least  a  score  of  young  English  lads  used  to 
live  at  Weimar  for  study,  or  sport,  or  society:  all  of 
which  were  to  be  had  in  the  friendly  little  Saxon  capital. 
The  Grand  Duke  and  Duchess  received  us  with  the  kind- 
liest hospitality.  The  Court  was  splendid,  but  yet  most 
pleasant  and  homely.  We  were  invited  in  our  turns  to 
dinners,  balls,  and  assemblies  there.  Such  young  men 
as  had  a  right  appeared  in  uniforms,  diplomatic  and  mil- 
itary. Some,  I  remember,  invented  gorgeous  clothing: 
the  kind  old  Hof-Marschall  of  those  days,  Monsieur  de 
Spiegel  (who  had  two  of  the  most  lovely  daughters  eyes 
ever  looked  on ) ,  being  in  nowise  difficult  as  to  the  admis- 
sion of  these  young  Englanders.  Of  the  winter  nights 
we  used  to  charter  sedan-chairs,  in  which  we  were  carried 
through  the  snow  to  those  pleasant  Court  entertainments. 
I  for  my  part  had  the  good  luck  to  purchase  Schiller's 
sword,  which  formed  a  part  of  my  Court  costume,  and 
still  hangs  in  my  study,  and  puts  me  in  mind  of  days  of 
youth  the  most  kindly  and  delightful. 

We  knew  the  whole  society  of  the  little  city,  and  but 
that  the  young  ladies,  one  and  all,  spoke  admirable  Eng- 

'  This  letter  was  written  by  Mr.  Thackeray  in  answer  to  a  request  from 
G.  H.  Lewes  for  some  account  of  his  recollections  of  Goethe.  It  is  printed 
In  Lewes's  "  Life  of  Goethe,"  p.  660. 

648 


GOETHE  IN  HIS  OLD  AGE  649 

lish,  we  surely  might  have  learned  the  very  best  German. 
The  society  met  constantly.  The  ladies  of  the  Court 
had  their  evenings.  The  theatre  was  open  twice  or 
thrice  in  the  week,  where  we  assembled,  a  large  family 
party.  Goethe  had  retired  from  the  direction,  but  the 
great  traditions  remained  still.  The  theatre  was  admir- 
ably conducted ;  and  besides  the  excellent  Weimar  com- 
pany, famous  actors  and  singers  from  various  parts  of 
Germany  performed  "  Gastrolle  "  ^  through  the  winter. 
In  that  winter  I  remember  we  had  Ludwig  Devrient  in 
Shylock,  "Hamlet,"  FalstafF,  and  the  "Robbers;"  and 
the  beautiful  Schroder  in  "  Fidelio." 

After  three-and-twenty  years'  absence  I  passed  a 
couple  of  summer  days  in  the  well-remembered  place, 
and  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  some  of  the  friends  of 
my  youth.  Madame  de  Goethe  was  there,  and  received 
me  and  my  daughters  with  the  kindness  of  old  days. 
We  drank  tea  in  the  open  air  at  the  famous  cottage  in 
the  Park,"  which  still  belongs  to  the  family,  and  has  been 
so  often  inhabited  by  her  illustrious  father. 

In  1831,  though  he  had  retired  from  the  world, 
Goethe  would  nevertheless  very  kindly  receive  strangers. 
His  daughter-in-law's  tea-table  was  always  spread  for 
us.  We  passed  hours  after  hours  there,  and  night' after 
night,  with  the  pleasantest  talk  and  music.  We  read 
over  endless  novels  and  poems  in  French,  English,  and 
German.  My  delight  in  those  days  was  to  make  carica- 
tures for  children.  I  was  touched  to  find  that  they  were 
remembered,  and  some  even  kept  until  the  present  time ; 
and  very  proud  to  be  told,  as  a  lad,  that  the  great  Goethe 
had  looked  at  some  of  them. 

*  What  in  England  are  called  "  starring  engagements." 
'  The  Oartenhaus. 


650    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

He  remained  in  his  private  apartments,  where  only  a 
very  few  privileged  persons  were  admitted;  but  he 
liked  to  know  all  that  was  happening,  and  interested  him- 
self about  all  strangers.  Whenever  a  countenance 
struck  his  fancy,  there  was  an  artist  settled  in  Weimar 
who  made  a  portrait  of  it.  Goethe  had  quite  a  gallery 
of  heads,  in  black  and  white,  taken  by  this  painter.  His 
house  was  all  over  pictures,  drawings,  casts,  statues,  and 
medals. 

Of  course  I  remember  very  well  the  perturbation  of 
spirit  with  which,  ^.s  a  lad  of  nineteen,  I  received  the 
long-expected  intimation  that  the  Herr  Geheimrath 
would  see  me  on  such  a  morning.  This  notable  audience 
took  place  in  a  little  ante-chamber  of  his  private  apart- 
ments, covered  all  round  with  antique  casts  and  bas- 
reliefs.  He  was  habited  in  a  long  grey  or  drab  redin- 
gote,  with  a  white  neckcloth  and  a  red  ribbon  in  his 
button-hole.  He  kept  his  hands  behind  his  back,  just 
as  in  Ranch's  statuette.  His  complexion  was  very 
bright,  clear,  and  rosy.  His  eyes  extraordinarily  dark,^ 
piercing  and  brilliant.  I  felt  quite  afraid  before  them, 
and  recollect  comparing  them  to  the  eyes  of  the  hero  of 
a  certain  romance  called  "Melmoth  the  Wanderer," 
whicli  used  to  alarm  us  boys  thirty  years  ago;  eyes  of 
an  individual  who  had  made  a  bargain  with  a  Certain 
Person,  and  at  an  extreme  old  age  retained  these  eyes 
in  all  their  awful  splendour.  I  fancy  Goethe  must  have 
l)ecn  still  more  handsome  as  an  old  man  than  even  in 
the  days  of  his  youth.  His  voice  was  very  rich  and 
sweet.  He  asked  me  questions  about  myself,  which  I 
answered  as  best  I  could.     I  recollect  I  was  at  first  as- 

'  This  mnst  hfivc  been  the  effect  of  the  position  in  which  he  sat  with  regard 
to  the  light.    Goethe's  eyes  were  dark  brown,  but  not  very  dark. 


GOETHE  IN  HIS  OLD  AGE  651 

tonished,  and  then  somewhat  reheved,  when  I  found  he 
spoke  French  with  not  a  good  accent. 

Vidi  tantuvi.  I  saw  him  but  three  times.  Once 
walking  in  the  garden  of  his  house  in  the  Frauenplan; 
once  going  to  step  into  his  chariot  on  a  sunshiny  day, 
wearing  a  cap  and  a  cloak  with  a  red  collar.  He  was 
caressing  at  the  time  a  beautiful  little  golden-haired 
granddaughter,  over  whose  sweet  fair  face  the  earth  has 
long  since  closed  too. 

Any  of  us  who  had  books  or  magazines  from  England 
sent  them  to  him,  and  he  examined  them  eagerly. 
Frasers  Magazine  had  lately  come  out,  and  I  remember 
he  was  interested  in  those  admirable  outline  portraits 
which  appeared  for  awhile  in  its  pages.  But  there  was 
one,  a  very  ghastly  caricature  of  JNIr.  Rogers,  which,  as 
]\Iadame  de  Goethe  told  me,  he  shut  up  and  put  away 
from  him  anffrilv.  "  Thev  would  make  me  look  like 
that,"  he  said:  though  in  truth  I  can  fancy  nothing  more 
serene,  majestic,  and  healthy-looking  than  the  grand  old 
Goethe. 

Though  his  sun  w^as  setting,  the  sky  round  about  was 
calm  and  bright,  and  that  little  Weimar  illumined  by  it. 
In  every  one  of  those  kind  salons  the  talk  was  still  of 
Art  and  Letters.  The  theatre,  though  possessing  no 
very  extraordinary  actors,  was  still  conducted  with  a 
noble  intelligence  and  order.  The  actors  read  books, 
and  were  men  of  letters  and  gentlemen,  holding  a  not 
unkindly  relationship  with  the  Adel.  At  Court  the  con- 
versation was  exceedingly  friendly,  simple,  and  polished. 
The  Grand  Duchess  (the  present  Grand  Duchess  Dow- 
ager), a  lady  of  very  remarkable  endowments,  would 
kindly  borrow  our  books  from  us,  lend  us  her  own,  and 
graciously  talk  to  us  young  men  about  our  literary  tastes 


652    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

and  pursuits.  In  the  respect  paid  by  this  Court  to  the 
Patriarch  of  letters,  there  was  something  ennobhng,  I 
think,  ahke  to  the  subject  and  sovereign.  With  a  five- 
and-twenty  years'  experience  since  those  happy  days  of 
which  I  write,  and  an  acquaintance  with  an  immense 
variety  of  human  kind,  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a  so- 
ciety  more  simple,  charitable,  courteous,  gentlemanlike, 
than  that  of  the  dear  little  Saxon  city  where  the  good 
Schiller  and  the  great  Goethe  lived  and  lie  buried. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


TIMBUCTOO 

To  the  Editor  of  "  The  Snob:^ 

SIR,— Though  your  name  be  "Snob,"  I  trust  you 
will  not  refuse  this  tiny  "  Poem  of  a  Gownsman," 
which  was  unluckily  not  finished  on  the  day  appointed 
for  delivery  of  the  several  copies  of  verses  on  Timbuctoo. 
I  thought,  Sir,  it  would  be  a  pity  that  such  a  poem  should 
be  lost  to  the  world;  and  conceiving  "  The  Snob  "  to  be 
the  most  widely  circulated  periodical  in  Europe,  I  have 
taken  the  hberty  of  submitting  it  for  insertion  or  appro- 
bation. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  T. 

Timbuctoo.^ 

The  situation.    In  AfHca  (a  quarter  of  the  world) 

Men's  skins  are  black,  their  hair  is  crisp  and 

curl'd ; 
And  somewhere  there,  unknown  to  public 

view, 
A  mighty  city  lies,  called  Timbuctoo. 
huto"ry*""^  There  stalks  the  tiger,— there  the  lion 

roars  5 

Who  sometimes  eats  the  luckless  blackamoors ; 

Line  1  and  2.    See  Guthrie's  Geography. 

The  site  of  Timbuctoo  Is  doubtful ;  the  Author  has  neatly 
expressed  this  in  the  Poem,  at  the  same  time  giving  us  some 
slight  hints  relative  to  its  situation. 

Line  5.     So  Horace — '  leonum  arida  nutrix.' 

^  This  parody  probably  represents   Mr.   Thackeray's   first   appearance   in 
print.    In  the  year  1829,  when  only  eighteen  years  of  age,  he  was  chiefly  con- 

653 


654>    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

All  that  he  leaves  of  them  the  monster  throws 
To  jackals,  vultures,  dogs,  cats,  kites,  and 

crows. 
His  hunger  thus  the  forest  monarch  gluts. 
And  then  lies  down  'neath  trees  called  cocoa 

nuts.  10 

The  lion  hunt.        Quick  issuc  out,  with  musket,  torch,  and 

brand. 
The  sturdy  blackamoors,  a  dusky  band! 
The  beast  is  found,— pop  goes  the  mus- 

ketoons, — 
The  lion  falls,  covered  with  horrid  wounds. 

Line  8.    Thus  Apollo  eXwpta  ts5)^£  XDvsaatv. 

Olwvotai  T£  Tzdni 

Line  5-10.  How  skilfully  introduced  are  the  animal  and  vege- 
table productions  of  Africa !  It  is  worthy  to  remark  the  various 
garments  in  which  the  Poet  hath  clothed  the  Lion.  He  is  called, 
1st,  the  Lion ;  2nd,  the  Monster  (for  he  is  very  large)  ;  and  3rd, 
the  Forest  Monarch,  which  he  undoubtedly  is. 

Line  11-14.  The  Author  confesses  himself  under  peculiar 
obligations  to  Denham's  and  Clapperton's  Travels,  as  they  sug- 
gested to  him  the  spirited  description  contained  in  these  lines. 

Line  13.  "  Pop  goes  the  musketoons."  A  learned  friend  sug- 
gested "  Bang,"  as  a  stronger  expression ;  but  as  African  gun- 
powder is  notoriously  bad,  the  Author  thought  "  Pop  "  the  better 
word. 

ccrned  in  starting  a  short-lived  Cambridge  undergraduate  magazine  entitled 
The  Snob.  He  is  believed  to  have  l)een  responsible  for  a  considerable  pro- 
portif)n  of  the  contents,  which  are  not  of  any  particular  merit,  but  with  the 
cxcei)tion  of  tliis  ])aro(iy  of  a  Cambridge  Prize  Poem  (on  the  subject,  as  will 
i)e  rcincmlKTcd,  for  wiiicii  Tennyson  gained  the  Chancellor's  Medal),  it  is 
not  |)ossii)le  to  be  certain  which  contributions  were  from  his  pen,  though  there 
arc  several  epigranmiatic  verses  and  some  letters  full  of  misspelling  and 
Malajjropisms  from  Dorothea  Julia  Itamsbottom  which  are  almost  unmis- 
takably  his. 


TIMBUCTOO 


655 


Their  lives  at 
home. 


Abroad. 

Reflections  on 
the  foregoing. 


At  home  their  lives  in  pleasure  always 

flow,  15 

But  many  have  a  different  lot  to  know! 

They're  often  caught,  and  sold  as  slaves,  alas ! 

Thus  men  from  highest  joy  to  sorrow  pass. 

Yet  though  thy  monarehs  and  thy  nobles  boil 

Rack  and  molasses  in  Jamaica's  isle !  20 

Desolate  Af ric !  thou  art  lovely  yet ! ! 

One  heart  yet  beats  w^hich  ne'er  shall  thee  for- 
get. 

What  though  thy  maidens  are  a  blackish 
brown, 

Does  virtue  dwell  in  whiter  breasts  alone? 

Oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no !  25 

It  shall  not,  must  not,  cannot,  e'er  be  so. 


Line  15-18.  A  concise  but  affecting  description  is  here  given 
of  the  domestic  habits  of  the  people, — the  infamous  manner  in 
which  they  are  entrapped  and  sold  as  slaves  is  described, — and 
the  whole  ends  with  an  appropriate  moral  sentiment.  The  Poem 
might  here  finish,  but  the  spirit  of  the  bard  penetrates  the  veil  of 
futurity,  and  from  it  cuts  off  a  bright  piece  for  the  hitherto  un- 
fortunate Africans,  as  the  following  beautiful  lines  amply  ex- 
emplify. 

It  may  perhaps  be  remarked  that  the  Author  has  here 
"  changed  his  hand ;  "  he  answers  that  it  was  his  intention  so  to 
do.  Before  it  was  his  endeavour  to  be  elegant  and  concise,  it  is 
now  his  wish  to  be  enthusiastic  and  magnificent.  He  trusts  the 
Reader  will  perceive  the  aptness  with  which  he  hath  changed  his 
style:  when  he  narrated  facts  he  was  calm,  when  he  enters  on 
prophecy  he  is  fervid. 

The  enthusiasm  which  he  feels  is  beautifully  expressed  in  lines 
25,  26.     He  thinks  he  has  very  successfully  imitated  in  the  last 


65G    ESSAYS,  LETTERS,  SKETCHES,  ETC. 

The  day  shall  come  when  Albion's  self  shall 

feel 
Stern  Af ric's  wrath,  and  writhe  'neath  Afric's 

steel. 
I  see  her  tribes  the  hill  of  glory  mount, 
And  sell  their  sugars  on  their  own 

account ;  30 

While  round  her  throne  the  prostrate  nations 

come, 
Sue  for  her  rice,  and  barter  for  her  rum.      32 

six  lines  the  best  manner  of  Mr.  Pope,  and  in  lines  19-26  the 
pathetic  elegance  of  the  Author  of  Australasia  and  Athens. 

The  Author  cannot  conclude  without  declaring  that  his  aim 
in  writing  this  Poem  will  be  fully  accomplished,  if  he  can  infuse 
in  the  breasts  of  Englishmen  a  sense  of  the  danger  in  which  they 
lie.  Yes — Africa!  If  he  can  awaken  one  particle  of  sympathy 
for  thy  sorrows,  of  love  for  thy  land,  of  admiration  for  thy 
virtue,  he  shall  sink  into  the  grave  with  the  proud  consciousness 
that  he  has  raised  esteem  where  before  there  was  contempt,  and 
has  kindled  the  flame  of  hope  on  the  smouldering  ashes  of 
Despair ! 


DRAWINGS   AND   CARICATURES 


DR.  JOHNSOX  AND  GOLDSMITH 

This  drawing  was  first  published  in  the  North  British 
Review  of  Februaiy  1864,  in  the  admirable  article  on 
Thackeray  by  Doctor  John  Brown.  It  had  been  sent  to 
a  friend  with  the  following  letter:  — 

"  Behold  a  drawing  instead  of  a  letter.  I've  been 
thinking  of  writing  you  a  beautiful  one  ever  so  long,  but 
etc.,  etc.  And  instead  of  doing  my  duty  this  morning,  I 
began  this  here  drawing,  and  will  pay  j^our  debt  some 
other  day — no,  part  of  your  debt.  I  intend  to  owe  the 
rest,  and  like  to  owe  it,  and  think  I'm  sincerely  grateful 
to  you  always,  my  dear  good  friends.       "  W.  M.  T." 

The  letter  is  not  dated,  but  may  probably  be  placed 
about  the  time  of  the  "  English  Humourists."  A  slight 
sketch  of  the  two  principal  figures  has  been  published  in 
the  lecture  on  Sterne  and  Goldsmith,  in  which  there  are 
several  allusions  to  the  fine  clothes  which  Filby  the  tailor 
made  for  Goldsmith,  and  often  did  not  get  paid  for. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  DIONYSIUS  DIDDLER^ 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen,— Many  thousand  years  ago, 
in  the  reign  of  Chrononhotonthologos,  King  of  Brent- 
ford, there  Hved  a  young  gentleman  whose  history  is 
about  to  be  laid  before  you. 

He  was  sixty  years  of  age,  and  his  name  was  Dionysius 
Diddler;  no  relation  of  any  other  Dionysius,  nor,  indeed, 
a  Brentfordian  by  birth;  for  (though  the  Diddlers  are 
very  numerous  in  Brentford)  this  was  a  young  fellow 
from  Patland,  which  country  he  quitted  at  a  very  early  age. 

He  was  by  trade  a  philosopher, — an  excellent  profes- 
sion in  Brentford,  where  the  people  are  more  ignorant 
and  more  easily  humbugged  than  any  people  on  earth; — 
and  no  doubt  he  would  have  made  a  pretty  fortune  by 
his  philosophy,  but  the  rogue  longed  to  be  a  man  of  fash- 
ion, and  spent  all  his  money  in  buying  clothes,  and  in 
giving  treats  to  the  ladies,  of  whom  he  was  outrageously 
fond.  Not  that  they  were  very  partial  to  him^  for  he 
was  not  particularly  handsome — especially  without  his 
wig  and  false  teeth,  both  of  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  this 
poor  Diddler  wore. 

Well,  the  consequence  of  his  extravagance  was,  that, 
ahhough  by  his  learning  he  had  made  himself  famous 
(there  was  his  Essay  on  the  Tea-Kettle,  his  Remarks  on 
Pumps,  and  his  celebrated  Closet  Cycloptedia,  that  every- 
one has  heard  of)  —one  day,  after  forty  years  of  glory, 
Diddler  found  himself  turned  out  of  his  lodging,  without 
a  penny,  without  his  wig,  which  he  had  pawned,  without 
even  his  teeth,  wliich  he  had  pawned  too,  seeing  he  had  no 
use  for  them. 

And  now  befell  a  series  of  adventures  that  you  shall 
all  hear;  and  so  take  warning,  ye  dashing  blades  of  the 
town,  by  the  awful  fate  of  Dionysius. 

^  First  published  in  the  Autographir,  Mirror,  1864.     The  Drawings 
were  made  about  1838. 


This  is  Diom-sius  Diddler!  young,  innocent,  and  with  a  fine  head  of  hair, 
—when  he  was  a  student  in  the  University  of  Bally  bunion.— That  is  Bally- 
bunion  University,  in  the  hedge. 


Here  he  is,  after  forty  years  of  fame,  and  he  thinks  upon  dear  Ballybunion. 
"  I'm  femous,"  says  he,  "all  the  world  over:  but  what's  the  use  of  riputetion? 
Look  at  me  with  all  me  lujjfgage  at  the  end  of  me  stick— all  me  money  in  me 
left-hand  breeches  pocket— and  it's  oh!  but  I'd  give  all  me  celebrity  for  a  bowl 
of  butther-milk  and  potaties." 


He  goes  to  call  on  Mr.  Shortman,  the  publisher  of  the  "  Closet  Cyclopse- 
dia,"  and,  sure  an  ouns !  Mr.  Shortman  gives  him  three  sovereigns  and  three 
five-pound  notes. 


The  first  thing  he  does  is  to  take  his  wig  out  of  pawn. 


'  And  now,"  says  he,  "  I'll  go  take  a  sthroll  to  the  Wist  Ind,  and  call 
on  me  frind,  Sir  Hinry  Pelham." 


He  pays  a  visit  to  Sir  Henry  Pelham. 


"  Fait ! "  says  Diddler,  "  the  what-d'ye-caJl-'ems  fit  me  like  a  glove; 


"  And  upon  nic  honour  and  conshicnoc,  now  I'm  dthressed,  but 
I  look  intirely  ginteel." 


4) 

^ 

•\ 

? 

«1 

s 

U 

0 

s 

;j 

.i' 

a 

E 

0 

c 

1 

s 

s 

>-> 

5: 

0 

••-d 

? 

* 
^ 

^ 

CS 

<u 

0 

» 

4; 

0 

c 

s 

s 

c 

CO 

0 

a 

.5 
iT) 

s 

s 

B 

U5 

r 

tn 
C 

B 
"8 

> 

0 

I. 

»< 

U 

c, 

^~ 

Q 

«4-l 

^ 

B 

S 

IS 

3 

W 

^ 

0 

S 

CO 

H 

« 

Cfi 

k,   ^ 

«  s 

o  -c 

S  «= 

*;  V 

5  c 

a 

c  ^ 


o    P 

^  i 


ca 


C 

<u 


flj     0; 


S  2 


u  ^  .22 


^  4) 

!tf  fcli 

c  -a 

o  o 

ci  ^ 


o 


o 


;:2    o 


8  Q 


S  3 


fcu 


CO 

c 


►:5  <  S  < 


AUTHORS'  MISERIES 


No.  I. 


Perhaps  you  flatter  yourself  that  you  have  made  an  impression  on  Miss 
Flannigan  (at  Worthing),  and  you  find  her  asleep  over  your  favourite  num- 
ber. 


No.  II. 


As  you  are  conducting  Lady  Gotobed  to  her  carriage  from  Lady  High- 
jink's  "noi)lc  i)iirty,"  and  fancying  yourself  a  man  of  fashion,  you  hear  the 
servants  in  tiie  hall  saying  one  to  another,  "  That's  him— that's  Poonch ! " 


No.  III. 


Having  corresponded  with  Miss  Rudge,  the  gifted  poetess  (authoress  of 
"Floranthe,"  "The  Lovelock  of  Montrose,"  "Moans  of  the  Heart-strings," 
&c.),  and  exchanged  portraits  and  your  own  poems  with  her,  you  meet  at 
last. 

You  are  disappointed  in  her  appearance,  and  find  her  about  forty  years 
older  than  her  picture;  perhaps  you,  too,  have  grown  rather  fat  and  seedy 
since  yours  was  taken  in  the  year  1817. 


No.  IV. 


fjl 


^l:^iiQ!Slfck.  ^.^Z_ 


As  you  are  labouring  on  your  great  work  (in  a  style,  let  us  add,  equal  to 
the  subject),  Lady  Anna  Maria  Tomnoddy's  compliments  arrive,  and  she 
requests  you  will  cast  your  eye  over  the  accompanying  manuscript  in  six 
volumes,  "The  Mysteries  of  Mayfair,"  correct  the  errors,  if  any,  and  find  a 
j)iihlisher  for  the  same. 

N.B. — You  have  in  your  bookcase  Captain  Bangles's  "  Buffaloes  and  Ban- 
yan Trees,"  in  MS.;  the  Rev.  Mr.  Growl's  "Sermons  to  a  Congregation  at 
Swansea,"  ditto,  ditto;  Miss  Piminy's  "  Wildflower  Coronal,  a  Wreath  of 
Village  Poesy";  and  Mr.  Clapperton's  six  manuscript  tragedies;  of  all  of 
which  you  are  requested  to  give  your  opinion. 


No.  V. 


The  printer's  boy  is  sitting  in  the  hall;  the  editor  has  written  to  say  that 
your  last  contributions  are  not  up  to  the  mark,  and  that  you  must  be  more 
funny,  if  you  please.  Mr.  Snip,  the  tailor,  has  called  again  that  morning; 
you  have  a  splitting  headaclie,  from  a  transaction  over-night,  and  as  you  are 
writing  an  exceedingly  light  and  humorous  article,  your  dear  Anna  Maria 
wishes  to  know  how  you  dare  dine  at  Greenwich,  and  with  whom  you  dined? 

I  suppose  she  found  the  bill  in  your  coat-pocket.  How  changed  Anna 
Maria  is  from  what  she  was  when  you  married  her!  and  how  uncommonly 
ill-tempered  she  has  grown  1 


No.  VI. 


Old  Gentleman.      Miss  Wiggets.      Two  Authors. 

Old  Oentleman.  "  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  occupied,  my  dear  Miss  Wiggets, 
witii  that  trivial  paper  Punch.  A  railway  is  not  a  place,  in  my  opinion,  for 
jokes.     I  never  joke — never." 

Miss  W.    "  So  I  should  think,  sir." 

Old  Gentleman.  "  And  besides,  are  you  aware  who  are  the  conductors  of 
that  i)aj)cr,  and  that  they  are  Chartists,  Deists,  Atheists,  Anarchists,  and 
Socialists  to  a  man?  I  have  it  from  the  best  authority,  that  they  meet  to- 
gether once  a  week  in  a  tavern  in  Saint  Giles's,  where  they  concoct  their 
infamous  print.  The  chief  part  of  their  income  is  derived  from  threatening 
letters  which  they  send  to  the  nobility  and  gentry.  The  principal  writer  is 
a  returned  convict.  Two  have  been  tried  at  the  Old  Bailey;  and  their  artist 
—  as  for  their  artist  ..." 

Guard.    "  Swin-dun  !  Sta-tion  !  "  [Exeunt  two  Authors. 


No.  VII. 


Mr.  Tims  and  a  Good-natured  Friend. 

G.-N.  F.    "  Have  you  read  the  '  Macadamiser,'  Tims?" 

T.    "  Hem  !  no.    Do  people  read  the  '  Macadamiser  '?  " 

G.-N.  F.  "He,  he!  I  say,  Tims,  there's  a  most  unjustifiable  attack  upon 
you  in  it.    Look  here."     (He  kindly  takes  out  the  "  Macadamiser.") 

T.  (reads)  "  '  This  person  is  before  us  again.  He  is  ignorant,  vulgar,  and 
a  cockney.  He  is  one  of  that  most  contemptible  race  of  men,  a  professional 
buffoon.  He  is,'  &c.  &c.  (Tims  reads  ad  libitum.)  Thank  you,  my  dear 
fellow;  it  was  uncommonly  good-natured  of  you  to  bring  the  critique." 


ONE  "WHO  CAN  MINISTER  TO  A  MIND 

DISEASED  " 


"You  seem  in  low  spirits,  Jem;  you  really  should  go  into  society.' 


A  TEA-TABLE  TRAGEDY 


Miss  Potts.    "  Married  her  uncle's  black  footman !  as  I'm  a  sinful  woman." 
Mrs.  Totts.  "No?" 
Mrs.  Watts.  "Oh!" 
Miss  Watts.  "Law!  !" 


HALF  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  DINNER 


Niminy  and  Piminy  staring  at  the  Ladies  seated  in  a  circle 
in  the  drawing-room. 

Niminy.    "  That's  a  fain  woman  in  yallah." 
Viminy.   "  Ilni ! — pooty  well." 


THE   HEAVIES 


Captain  Rag  dictating  to  Cornet  Famish. 

Rag.    "  Our  Wedgment  is  awdrd  abwawd." 

Famish.     "  Ordered  abroad  !  " 

Rag.    "  And  I  cannot  leave  my  deawest  Anna  Mawia." 

Famish.    "  I  cannot  leave  my  dear  Miss  Baker." 

Rag.     "  Without  a  stwuggle." 

Fajnish.     "Without  a  .  .  .  hang  it!  I  say.  Rag!" 

Rag.    "Whawt?" 

Famish.     "How  d'ye  spell  struggle— with  one  g  or  two?" 

Rag.    "  O— demmy— twy  thwee  g's,  Famish  my  boy." 


1 


A   SCEKE    IK    SAINT   JAMES  S   PARK. 


LITERATURE  AT  A  STAND 


I  say,  Jim,  vich  do  you  give  tlie  pruflFerance?    Eugene  Shue 
or  Halexander  Dumas?"- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


PSD  2343    9/77 


PR 

5613 
L56 

1911 


„';!^.§ouT, 


^00380 


Iffllll 


I'ilili'lil'lilllilll'l 


